


Actions, Not Words

by adavison



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Colleagues to Friends, Cooking, Drug Use, Food, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gun Violence, M/M, Oral Sex, Schedules, Texting, The Great British Bake Off References, Wine play, Wit, anthea ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21540982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adavison/pseuds/adavison
Summary: When Mycroft takes over one of Greg’s cases, old feelings arise.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (implied)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 103
Collections: Pen15 is Mightier Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dziude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dziude/gifts).



> This is a gift for [Dziude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dziude/profile). I had so much fun writing this pairing for you!
> 
> I want to give a big thank you to Neen and Uncle A who were there every step of the way with support, encouragement, and friendship. Without you two, this fic would not have been possible. Also, a huge thank you to [BrandonStrayne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandonStrayne/profile) who had the idea for the wine play and was able to step in at the 11th hour and beta this baby.
> 
> Just a heads up for all you lovely readers, there are mentions of drug use, possession, overdose, and a person being drugged to subdue them. There are also mentions of violence in Chapter Nine: two incidents of gun violence, two incidents of knife violence, and one incident of physical violence. Each act of violence is directly related to the case and is in no way a part of the relationship between our central characters.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and have a happy holiday season!

18 February 

21:05

_Good god_ , he thought, savouring the final bite. His taste buds were flooded with the rich, juicy flavour of a perfectly cooked wagyu steak. Cooked for a total of three minutes in its own fat, the steak positively melted in his mouth. He took one last moment to truly savour the amasa, kaori, and yawarasaka of the beef before swallowing. He had long since finished the creamy French onion mushrooms. It had taken the utmost restraint to eat slowly, to drag out his supper for nearing an hour. 

He never took an hour to eat a meal unless he was dining with foreign dignitaries or for a work event. He never allowed himself to really enjoy the flavours, the pleasure the food could bring to him, except for his weekly cheat meal. Just like everything else in his life, meals were regimented. Most days, he had a light breakfast at 6:00 AM, just after his morning run. Lunch normally consisted of a salad or soup at his desk. And dinner, he cooked when he was able to make it home. It always consisted of no more than four ounces of lean protein such as turkey, chicken, or fish and a massive helping of vegetables of the steamed or raw variety. If he were unable to make it home, he would order something similar at the club. He liked cooking his own meals though. It was quite calming actually. However, cooking for one could be rather… challenging, and not in the way he enjoyed. It had been over a decade since he truly had someone to cook for. He missed it. He really did, but it was better this way. 

This life he led. This highly organized and structured life kept him safe. Kept him on track. It had taken years to ascend to his position. A “minor position in the British government”. He wasn’t going to let anything derail this life he had built for himself. Structure was essential. True, work could be unpredictable. He was constantly putting out fires, but truly, even that had a certain pattern to it. Maybe it was just how his brain worked, but he saw patterns everywhere. Even the most difficult of situations usually amounted to a simple if-then equation. There were only a few wild cards in the deck: North Korea, that orange oaf in the colonies, and his brother Sherlock Holmes. The lot of them were rather unpredictable. However, if he played his cards right, wrangling the three of them could be done, albeit not easily. 

Pushing such thoughts into the furthest reaches of his mind, Mycroft moved his empty plate to the side and reached for the small dessert plate holding a decadent slice of Triple Chocolate Espresso cake. The dense, fudgy dessert had four thin layers sandwiched together with a dark chocolate and espresso frosting. It was one of his absolute favourites, and completely worth the calories. And besides, it was his cheat meal after all. One had to allow regular intervals to just enjoy the pleasures of life so one did not go overboard. These intervals were highly regimented as well. Once a year he went to a spa and indulged in a day of complete relaxation. Once a quarter, he allowed himself a half-day lie in and turned off his work phone. If something was truly the matter, his assistant had his personal number. Once a month, he went to the opera or symphony. And once a week, he had a cheat meal. It was a system that had worked well for him for many years. 

His fork glided through the moist cake. Only a slight _clink_ could be heard as the utensil lightly hit the plate, scooping up a modestly sized bite. Slowly, he raised the forkful to his mouth and stifled a moan of pure bliss as the rich chocolate melted on his tongue. This was utterly divine.

As he reached for a second bite, his phone rang. With a sigh, Mycroft set down his fork and reached into his breast pocket to retrieve his work phone.

“Holmes,” he barked.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Anthea’s smooth voice intoned across the connection. “But you asked for any updates regarding the Reznik file.”

Mycroft cast a long mournful look at the cake before pushing it aside. “Yes. Go ahead.”

He listened intently while Anthea rattled off the pertinent information. It was times like these where he fully appreciated her quick, concise nature. She was, by far, one of the better PAs he’d had in his many years of government service.

"How many arrested?”

“Six.”

“And one of them was our target?”

“Yes, sir. A large amount of money has been transferred from one of the accounts we have been monitoring. It is unlikely that they will be in custody for long.”

“Agreed. Gather a team; we will need to collect everything the Met has.”

“Of course, sir.” After a brief pause, she added, “Also sir, your brother was involved.”

“In his capacity as ‘Consulting Detective’. Yes.” He heaved a sigh. “I will head up the retrieval and deal with him myself.”

“Yes, sir. A car is en route to your location. There will be a physical file in the vehicle containing all pertinent information from tonight’s events.”

“Thank you, Anthea.” He rung off without saying goodbye. He never said goodbye over the phone unless it was to his parents and that was only because they guilted him into it. Mycroft understood that people desired social niceties, but honestly, they weren’t necessary What was the point of drabbling on about the weather and how someone’s family was if you really didn’t care? Unless you were trying to get something important from someone, whether it be information, or an agreement, or an object, they were superfluous. You could save so much time by just getting down to business. It left you with only the task at hand, not random useless information about the other person’s personal life that you would just have to use more energy to delete later. There was a finite amount of space in his ‘mind palace’ and he would not allow mundane knowledge to occupy more space than it had already been allotted.

Heaving an almost inaudible sigh, Mycroft rose from the table, throwing a final longing look at the rich chocolatey slice of heaven he was abandoning for the sake of the Empire. It really was worth it, he told himself. He was able to have a taste. That would carry him over until the next week. True, the club would not have the cake again for at least another month, but it would have to be enough to satisfy him for now. Besides, he wouldn’t have to work out as strenuously in the morning. If his assumption was correct, and he was sure it was, he would be working on the Reznik file well into the night.

While Mycroft was used to a certain unpredictability in his line of work, it always took him a bit to get his mind back into gear when he was abruptly called away from his scheduled leisure time, especially now that he was nearing the wrong side of forty. Knowing that he did not have long, he stepped into the lavatory that sat just off the main room. He quickly brushed his teeth and ensured that his appearance was immaculate. He ran a comb quickly through his thinning auburn hair, making sure every strand was in its place. He stared into the mirror and took in his hawk-like face. The lines around his eyes were starting to become more pronounced. Not quite as defined as those of others his age. He was well aware that he smiled, at least outwardly, much less than the common man. A few more lines around his mouth had appeared as well, thanks to the recent increase in frequency of speaking Slavic languages. And the ever-present crease to the left of the bridge of his nose. The only, current, indication that he frequently furrowed his brow in concentration and tended to favour his left eyebrow when raising one. Mycroft shook himself. This wasn’t a time for vanity. The car would arrive any moment and duty called. The metaphorical mask was back on. Time to get to work.


	2. Confrontation

18 February 

21:05

Greg stood just at the doorway, doing his best to keep his face impassive. Inside, however, he felt completely defeated. He and his team had spent days, no weeks, compiling evidence and hunting down the drugs ring. Yes, he had needed to bring Sherlock in, but that was only to expedite the process. They would have gotten there soon, but time was of the essence. He had received a tip that a large shipment of cocaine would be arriving that night and he just needed the last bit of evidence to confirm his suspicions that his suspect was involved. And of course, Sherlock was not only able to confirm it, he was able to directly tie several others to the ring.

The sting had gone off without a hitch. They had apprehended all those involved and had confiscated almost ten kilos of cocaine. It was one of the largest shipments they had found in years. The men hadn’t expected to be caught. Before they could even think to put up a fight, Greg’s team had them surrounded. There were six altogether and most surrendered quietly. However, the youngest of the group was cocky and belligerent. Greg expected one of the older criminals to shout abuse at the kid, telling him to shut up, but none seemed so inclined. It became clear soon after that the young man was in some position of power.

The whole way to the station, he was ranting about how they wouldn’t be able to hold him, that no charges would stick, and didn’t they know who he was? Unfortunately, this annoying, supposed trust fund brat wasn’t just talking shit. Not even five minutes after being sent back for intake, three men in sharp suits swept into the building and secured the boy’s release within moments. He threw a nasty smirk Greg’s way as he sauntered out the door.

“Buggering fuck,” Greg muttered to himself and stalked toward the lift. It took a herculean effort not to punch the wall while he waited for it to arrive. _Why the fuck did I give up smoking?_ he wondered darkly to himself. Maybe he still had a few nicotine patches in his desk drawer. God, he hoped so. If anything were to make him break down and buy a pack of cigarettes, this case was it. _No_ , he thought, it wasn’t worth it. _You’ll just wake up tomorrow morning and hack up a lung._ If he ignored the craving, it would pass. Besides, it was late and the shop down the street charged an arm and a leg.

It was late; he’d let those they still had in custody stew overnight and start interviews in the morning. The men in suits had looked very posh. It was likely they would have the charges brought against the young man dropped. It pissed him off to no end that by throwing around enough money someone could just make their wrongdoings disappear. He would just go back up to his office, make sure everyone involved had finished their paperwork for the case, transcribe his own notes, and then call it a night.

On the ride up to the Major Crimes floor, he mused that it was a wonder John had been able to convince Sherlock o come in that night and file their report. John just have realized how big of a case this was. Well, honestly, anyone would have realized that. He was frankly surprised that the suits hadn’t jumped all over this. Granted, ten kilos weren’t a lot in their books, but for London, it was huge.

A low, electric beep issued from the lift as it reached his floor. He exited swiftly and stopped by the breakroom long enough to pour himself a cup of the tar-like coffee one could only find at the Met this late in the evening. It would have to do. At this point, caffeine was a necessity. He would be mainlining it if he could. He took note of Sherlock and John sitting at the small table in the corner of his office, John studiously filling out paperwork, Sherlock probably calculating the angle and force with which he would need to throw his pencil so it would stick in the ceiling tile above his head. Greg gave them a cursory nod then plopped down at his own desk. He took a large swig of his coffee, downing it like medicine and hardly even tasting the black sludge before he pulled out his pocket notebook and hunched over it as he flipped through the pages. Might as well get a start on the transcription before his brain completely gave out.

Just as his laptop had finally booted up and requested the password, his phone rang. Not his mobile, his office line. “Lestrade,” he said, wearily, into the receiver, not bothering to check the caller ID. The crisp, clipped voice on the line had him quickly sitting up at attention. Both John and Sherlock had noticed the shift in mood. A look of what Greg could only describe as realization and disgust flashed across Sherlock’s face momentarily before being replaced by his usual impassive visage. Someone who had not known Sherlock as well as he did would have missed it, but not Greg. He wondered briefly if he would be able to get Sherlock to tell him exactly what he had deduced before all hell broke loose but doubted it. He rang off his call, stood quickly, and exited his office striding into the bullpen.

“Alright everyone,” he addressed the room at large, voice rough from prolonged use. God, what he wouldn’t give for a good cup of tea with copious amounts of honey and milk right now. “Stop what you’re doing. The Chief Inspector is on his way up. I don’t have all the details, but it looks as though the suits are taking over the Reznik case. Start gathering everything pertinent to the case. They’ll want it all.”

Just then, the doors to the lift opened. Out strode Chief Inspector Siebert and a swarm of men and women in suits carrying plain, unmarked boxes. They dispersed amongst the current occupants of Major Crimes and began collecting folders and stacks of paperwork. Some inserted flash drives into the desk computers and fiddled around like they were trying to hack the system. Sally Donovan, his sergeant, was scowling and looked offended that some impersonal Fed had come in and was rummaging around her desk. She, more than anyone else, knew how hard Greg had worked on this case. Hell, she had been beside him the whole time. She was the reason he had eaten regularly and slept at all in the last few weeks. She stalked away from the chaos and came to stand beside him. She was in a rumpled white button-down shirt and navy trousers that were still water-stained from the small rainstorm they had been caught in during the evening’s bust. Her hair was thrown up in a haphazard knot held in place by what appeared to be a pencil.

“They want it ‘cause of the amount of coke?” she asked briskly.

“I’m not sure. The last time I was on a case that they took over it happened during normal business hours and they didn’t send an army of minions to collect everything. It was two guys and we had a day or two’s notice to get everything together. With all this,” he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the bullpen, “I’m almost tempted to say it’s – “

“Mycroft,” Sherlock, in his low silky baritone, sneered from the doorway behind him.

Following Sherlock’s line of sight, Greg saw the doors to the lift open once more and deliver an immaculate Mycroft Holmes into the room.

It had been a long time since Greg had seen Mycroft. Years ago, when Sherlock had first started showing up at crime scenes, sometimes still high, making deductions and seeing things that even the most skilled investigator seemed to miss, Mycroft had shown up and… well, he called it an impromptu introduction, but Greg and most of the rest of the world would call it kidnapping. A shiny black car had rolled to a stop in front of his favourite coffee shop as soon as he stepped out of the door. A bored-looking young woman, smartly dressed in a suit, eyes fixed on her Blackberry, had stepped out of the vehicle and insisted that he come with her. Against his better judgement, he went and was dropped off outside what he now knew was the Diogenes Club.

From the outside, it appeared to be one of many row houses. Exterior painted white, the front of which was separated from the others by a wrought iron fence. The only thing that distinguished the building from its neighbours was a bronze plaque to the right of the door with the name of the establishment. The pretty woman had not spoken to him on the drive there, however, she had handed him a business card and told him, upon gesturing for him to exit the vehicle to give the card to whoever answered the door and to not speak until spoken to. The card was on a fine, heavy stock. It was a crisp white with only a name written on it in a flowing black script: Mycroft Holmes. What kind of business card only contained a person’s name, not their title or contact information? It reminded him of the calling cards of old. Who used calling cards anymore? Obviously, someone who went to great lengths to abduct him in the poshest way possible. 

Once inside, Greg had followed the silent attendant from the lush grand foyer up some winding stairs covered in thick carpet which muffled all sounds of foot falls and down a corridor furnished in a style similar to the floor below, great paintings of hunting scenes, heavy mahogany tables placed strategically between doors made of the same wood. When they arrived at the final door in the hallway, the attendant made an almost imperceptible rap on the door, nodded at Greg, then headed back the way he had come. Greg stood, bewildered for a moment. He had quickly taken in his surroundings and attempted to sort through all the new data to try and figure out what exactly was going on. Suddenly, the door opened, and Mycroft Holmes stood before him. He gave him a quick once over, then beckoned him inside wordlessly.

Mycroft stated speaking then. He was quite polite, if aloof. He invited Greg to sit in one of the plush wingback chairs next to a fireplace and offered him a drink. It was still relatively early in the day, so Greg declined. He wanted to cut to the chase, to know why this man with the same surname as the young consulting detective had… summoned him to a fancy members only club. Greg was sure the annual membership fee could cover his rent for a year.

Over the course of the conversation, Greg learned that Mycroft was Sherlock’s brother. He claimed to hold a “minor position in the British government”, however Greg doubted very much that someone with Mycroft’s assets and abilities was anything minor. The man had explained that he liked to keep tabs on Sherlock, especially as he had abruptly ended his most recent stint in rehab. They had come to an agreement. Greg would give Sherlock cold cases, provided that he remained sober. Monthly, the two men would meet to discuss Sherlock’s progress, or lack thereof. After a while of this, Sherlock had gained a hold on his sobriety and was taking on current cases, and one John Watson had come into the picture.

After Mycroft’s introduction to John, the need for a continued acquaintance with Greg was almost non-existent. Their meetings had gone down to quarterly, and then yearly until Sherlock had fallen. Greg had tried to reach out to the man several times during those two years, however he never heard back. Once Sherlock had returned, Greg hadn’t known what to say, so he hadn’t reached out at all. He did receive a text several weeks later saying, “I apologize. It was necessary.” Since then, it had been radio silence.

A lot had changed in that time. Greg no longer held onto his displeasure. He had let that go. He had also divorced his wife and was free to really indulge in the thought that hit him like a tidal wave as he took in Mycroft’s appearance. He felt a slight tug behind his navel and let out a sharp breath. Though not conventionally handsome, Mycroft was quite breathtaking. He was slim and very tall like his brother; however, he didn’t exude the same air of utter disdain for those who weren’t on his level. Okay, maybe that wasn’t actually true, but it at least appeared to be more of an armour he wore than a weapon to be wielded. Greg didn’t doubt that Mycroft did that when necessary, but something made him think it was all a very carefully crafted guise. He was sure it came in handy in the political arena. Greg didn’t really have a type. To be sure, Mycroft was his ex-wife’s opposite in every physical way possible. However, if he were to settle on a preference, at least for males, tall and powerful did it for him. 

Greg pushed those thoughts to the side. Mycroft showing up to supervise the collection of documents only confirmed his conviction that this man was much higher up in the ranks than he claimed to be. If Sherlock were to be believed, his brother _was_ the British government. That was a scary thought. However, if it were true, Greg couldn’t think of anyone else that he would rather have making the tough calls for the nation.

Jolting himself back to the present, Greg noticed that one of the agents had started to enter his office. He followed the short, stocky man into the room and helped him gather up all papers pertaining to the case. The man didn’t say anything to him, just plopped down in his desk chair and plugged a USB drive into his laptop. The man was quick and efficient. Greg thought he resembled one of those hackers you see in movies, where they spend however long typing and aren’t at all interested in moving the mouse. He was a bit startled when the man was able to get through his several layers of passwords, however if the man worked for Mycroft Holmes, almost nothing could surprise him.

After a few moments, the man removed the flash drive and began rifling around the desk. He spotted the notebook Greg had tossed on the desk a few minutes earlier, flipped through the pages quickly, then added it to his box, before taking one final sweeping look around the tiny office and exiting without a word. Greg wanted to protest, but it did contain notes on the case. He followed the man back out to the bullpen. It was then he noticed that both Sherlock and John had disappeared. He would go by their flat tomorrow and debrief them. No, he wouldn’t. This was no longer his case. Sally had gone back to her desk to straighten up the mess caused by the suits.

Heaving a sigh, Greg figured he’d at least go say hello to Mycroft. It was only polite, and besides, it had been several years since they had seen each other, and the years had been very kind to Mycroft Holmes. It wouldn’t hurt to have another up-close look. Not that Greg was on the pull or anything. He had actually put his personal life on the back burner the last few months, having thrown himself into work. He did that sometimes… well, more often than he probably should. That had been one of the reasons his ex had cited for her cheating. Greg was a workaholic; the job came first, it always had. She had known this long before they had married, but he supposed she thought that she could change him, as had countless others over the years. His ex’s cheating had been a new one. He wasn’t completely blameless, but he wasn’t solely at fault either. He had tried, he really had. They had gone to counselling, he had cut back his hours at work, and he had worked his ass off to be there for her. Unfortunately, she had given up on the relationship long ago. At least they didn’t have any children. That would have made for a messy divorce. 

He walked over to Mycroft. He would have liked to saunter up to him, but he was much too tired for that. “Mycroft,” Greg said as he extended his hand to the man. “It’s been a while.”

“It certainly has Detective Inspector.” Mycroft took it in his large warm hand; his grip was firm and strong. The man should teach a class. All the minions had begun picking up boxes and headed back to the lift, most having found exactly what they were looking for.

“Not to sound rude, but what are you doing here?” Isn’t something like this below your paygrade?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I am merely overseeing the collection of data on the Reznik case. Seeing as my brother was involved in his apprehension, I figured it only prudent to take on the task myself.”

“And the reason for the involvement of your people is…?”

“Classified.”

Greg flashed him a rueful smile. “Figured as much. If it were just about this case it would have been the NCA, not you.”

Mycroft tilted his head, assessing Greg quickly. It still felt like being x-rayed after all these years. “The National Crime Agency did have some interest in it, yes.”

“And Interpol hasn’t? Several of those apprehended tonight, including Reznik are not British citizens.”

“And we will gladly hand them over to Interpol once we have finished questioning them.”

“Any chance we can get an update on the outcome of your… investigation?”

“Not likely, Detective Inspector,” he said in his usual cool tone. For a moment, Greg thought he saw something akin to regret flash in Mycroft’s eyes. However, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. The final few box-wielding suits walked into the lift. Activity in the room was now at the bare minimum. The adrenaline of the night finally petered out and left all the Yarders in a zombie-like state.

“It’s Greg, or Lestrade,” he huffed in mild annoyance.

Mycroft hummed in that noncommittal way he always did when Greg asked to be called by his name, not title. At that moment, the lift beeped. Straightening, Mycroft inclined his head to Greg and walked into the lift. Once inside, he looked back and said, “Good night Detective Inspector,” and after a pause and the briefest flash of a smirk he added, “Lestrade,” as the doors closed between them.

For a moment, Greg stood frozen in place. He again felt a slight pull behind his navel, and he couldn’t help the faintest flush that appeared on his face. _Get it together Lestrade_ , he thought before forcing himself back to the present. Slowly, he walked back to his office. He stood in the doorframe and took in the disarray inside. True, it had been a bit of a mess before Mycroft’s people came in, but at least he had known where everything had been. Just a touch of organised chaos worked well for him. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t work so well with Sherlock. Greg sighed and started straightening up. It wouldn’t do to come in tomorrow to complete chaos. As he gathered everything into semi-organised piles, he came across his favourite pen, the one that worked best with his notebook. _Fuck_ , he thought as he remembered that they had taken the notebook. He flopped down in his chair, eyes closed, fists opening and closing in an attempt to relieve some stress. That had been his last notebook. 

****

19 February 

01:30

It had been a long night. Mycroft left New Scotland Yard and had gone into the office to ensure the team had started sifting through all the information they had collected. Deciding they had it well in hand and knowing that he would be called if anything came up, he decided to head home. 

Once inside, Mycroft let a sigh escape his lips. It was late. He needed to sleep. A quick calculation in his head revealed that if he were to change and lay down within the next half-hour and fell asleep in ten minutes, as per usual, he would get a solid four hours sleep. While not ideal, it would be sufficient. An espresso before leaving for work and a power nap at lunch would get him through the day.

While his body was tired, his brain refused to shut off. As he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, his mind began playing back the day’s events, running calculations on how his string of meetings tomorrow would go and wondering just how helpful the information collected from the Met would actually be. Unlike what his brother always said, the Met weren’t completely incompetent. They just moved more slowly. They had gotten along just fine before his brother began his involvement, and they would do well in his absence if it were again necessary. While Mycroft rarely worked with the Met, this case at least seemed well-handled and thorough. He would need to review the pertinent information once he returned to the office, but it appeared that while seeming unorganised, Detective Inspector Lestrade’s paperwork and evidence were in order. For that, he was appreciative.

As he sat on the bench at the foot of his bed removing his favourite wingtips and socks, Mycroft’s mind began to wander. He had not seen the DI for many years and was somewhat startled to run into him that night. When he got into the car waiting for him outside his club, he was still trying to shift his brain back into work mode. Thus, he completely missed the name listed on the summary sheet Anthea had left at the top of the folder. 

The DI had looked exhausted and harried. His shirt had a few buttons undone at the top, revealing a bit of clavicle. He had not been wearing a vest. His shirt was hopelessly wrinkled, but honestly, after personally arresting a group of drug trafficking thugs and a long day at the office, he looked rather good. Mycroft had not failed to notice that the DI no longer wore a wedding ring. Mycroft had known that there had been issues within the marriage and had hoped for the DI’s sake that they would either be resolved quickly, or their union would come to an end. It appeared the latter was the case. He and Detective Inspector Lestrade had never been particularly close; however, they had met frequently over the years to discuss Sherlock’s involvement in police business. 

Seeing the man after so many years caused something in his chest to tighten. Mycroft smiled a bit at the memory of walking onto the Major Crimes floor and watching Lestrade, dishevelled and exhausted, make eye contact with him. The man had always been bad at hiding his emotions. He seemed startled to see Mycroft. There was a flash of something behind his eyes that Mycroft had been unable to read. It was either anger or… could it have been lust? Maybe a little bit of both? 

Though Mycroft was sure he had very well hidden his own physical attraction to the man, he had not failed to notice the subtle looks he had received from the Detective Inspector, especially in the last year of their acquaintance. The man had been married, true it was unhappily, and Mycroft was certain of the man’s bisexuality, but he had rules, standards. He would not get involved with a married man. However, now it appeared that the man was available. 

Regardless of his attraction, he was not one hundred percent certain of the man’s feelings. Mycroft would make no move unless he was certain of things going in his favour. As it was, it was more than likely that he had mistaken the passion in the Detective Inspector’s eyes and it was actually anger. Mycroft still felt a bit bad for cutting ties completely after his brother fell. While he had no qualms about lying to the general populace, hell even John, he did not feel himself capable, or even willing, to lie to Gregory Lestrade. That was not a good feeling. Lies, half-truths and evasions were all he could normally divulge to anyone in his life. It had worked quite well for him in the past and as long as the greater good of the Empire was secure, it had never bothered him. Something this big though… something this personal… Why did he feel incapable of outright lying to a man he hardly knew?

Mycroft wasn’t sure, but something inside him was instantly calmed every time he was in the presence of the Detective Inspector. Something made the man feel trustworthy. It must have been his eyes. His eyes were like deep pools of semi-sweet chocolate. They seemed to draw one in and hold them there, wanting desperately to dive into their depths and unburden themselves. No wonder the man was able to coax confessions out of some of London’s most hardened criminals. 

Time had been kind to the Detective Inspector. While his short-cropped salt and pepper hair was more on the side of salt these days, it suited him. It was very clean-cut and professional. The two days’ worth of stubble, however, spoke of a hardworking man. One who would sacrifice his own needs to see justice served for others. Mycroft wondered what it would feel like for that rough, chiselled jaw to rub against his cheek, and maybe other places as well. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought and he realized that his trousers were beginning to feel somewhat tight. 

It had been several months since he had indulged with anyone else. He had an arrangement with a man who worked in a similar field. Whenever they were both in town and the mood struck them, they would schedule a meeting. However, their schedules had been at odds lately and Mycroft found that he really did not miss the man. He did regularly engage in solo activities but rarely did so this late at night. He really did need to get to bed, but his mind just wouldn’t power down and another part of him was asking for attention. _What the hell,_ he thought. His dessert had been interrupted by work. He had not had the chance to properly enjoy the cake. He might as well take his time and enjoy a luxurious wank. 

Mind made up, Mycroft tossed his socks into the hamper and walked over to his closet to put his shoes in their designated spot. He removed his suit jacket and placed it on the wooden hanger, taking a moment to brush it clean. He moved over to his bureau and deftly removed his silver cufflinks, placing them, along with his pocket watch, into their proper cases. He removed the midnight blue silk tie from around his neck and hung it on its rack. Next came his waistcoat and braces. He unfastened his trousers before he untucked his shirt and unbuttoned it slowly. He placed it in the hamper before removing and hanging up his trousers. Standing in front of his closet in pants and a vest, Mycroft suddenly felt a bit silly. What was the point of slowly undressing himself? It wasn’t as if this were like a personal foreplay. He normally didn’t need much if it were just himself and his hand. A glass of wine and either a bath or a hot shower was normally more than enough. It was much too late for wine now, and he would just have to take another shower again in a few hours after his morning run, so there was no point. Besides, undressing yourself, for yourself, was decidedly not that sexy. Had it been for another person’s pleasure, that would have been a completely different story. 

Deciding to just get on with it, Mycroft shucked his white cotton vest and midnight blue pants and tossed them into the hamper as well, before crawling into bed, savouring the feel of the high thread count sheets against his slightly flushed skin. Mycroft took a few deep breaths as he attempted to clear his mind of the day’s stress. Ever so slowly, he reached down between his legs and loosely grasped himself as he filled to hardness. He stroked himself lazily and tried to focus on just the feeling of the slide of skin. God it felt nice. He reached his other hand down to cup his balls, rolling them gently. He took in a sharp breath at the added sensation. He did not want this to end too quickly, so he removed his left hand and continued the slow tug on his member with his right hand but added a twist after each fourth stroke. 

Slow and methodical, that was the name of the game. This was not a time for efficiency. This was a time to savour in the weight of the cock in his hand, the subtle rise in his temperature, and the feeling of desire coiling low in his abdomen. If he closed his eyes, he could easily imagine that it was someone else’s hand on him. A hand that wasn’t as smooth as his own. One that was slightly rough with calluses, that hadn’t seen a manicure in ages, if ever. He could almost feel the slight rasp of those rough hands on his skin. God it was intoxicating. He tightened his grasp and pushed up into the tight fist, longing for more friction. With his left hand, Mycroft began lazily running his fingers up and down his sides, occasionally allowing a fingernail to lightly graze the skin. At the new sensation, he took in a sharp breath of air. He slowly increased the pressure of nails on skin as he sped up his strokes. In his mind, the other man shifted from in front of him to behind him. The other man’s arm encircled his waist to continue the ministrations to his cock while kissing his neck and mouthing at the shell of his ear. The other man began rutting between his thighs. 

More, Mycroft needed more. He blindly reached out to the nightstand next to his bed. Quickly, he opened the drawer and rifled through its contents, a pen and a pad of paper, a small handgun in its holster, and a few condoms, before he finally grasped the bottle of lube he had been questing for. He poured a generous amount of the viscous liquid into the palm of his hand before closing the cap to the bottle and tossing it back into the drawer. He rubbed his hands together briefly in an attempt to bring the lube to room temperature before returning them to his cock. The coil in his abdomen grew ever tighter, begging for release. In his mind, the man began whispering filthy words into his ear. The man was encouraging him to just let go and come, but Mycroft wasn’t sure he could. Suddenly, the man rubbed his greying stubbled chin against Mycroft’s neck before he bit down on the tender flesh. With a cry, the tension inside him snapped and he came hard, mentally held by an equally sated Gregory Lestrade. 

_That was odd_ , Mycroft thought after he had caught his breath. It was rare for him to think of an actual person when he came. He quickly filed that thought away for later. It was late and his alarm would go off in a matter of hours. Eyes growing heavy, Mycroft used the top sheet to do a cursory clean-up. Tomorrow was laundry day; he’d just throw these sheets in the wash. Without another thought, he finally gave in to sleep.


	3. Notebooks and Codes

19 February 

11:45

Greg downed the dregs of his third cup of bad coffee that morning. He had spent the last four hours sequestered in his office attempting to catch up on the administrative portion of his job. Signing timesheets and making the schedule for the upcoming month was never his favourite thing to do, however, he would have felt awful pushing it off on Donovan. She was amazing at most aspects of her job, but the department would be in chaos if he had her do scheduling. She didn’t seem to notice that Jones and Hansen were completely unproductive if placed together and that Podmore and Matthews, though a brilliant team, did not do well on the night shift. No, it was better all-around if he did this. While trying to decide if a fourth cup of coffee would be worth the caffeine jitters, his desk phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID listed the number as Unavailable. 

Greg sighed and picked up the receiver. “Lestrade,” he said into the phone, trying to mask the weariness he felt.

“Good morning Detective Inspector,” Mycroft’s cool lilting voice greeted him.

Greg rolled his eyes. How did the bastard always seem so alert and put together? “What can I help you with today, Mycroft? Your guys already took everything we had on the Reznik case. You on your way over to take something else off my caseload?”

Mycroft chuckled softly. “No, Detective Inspector, this is the only case we will be commandeering for the moment.”

“Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your call? You want something, clearly.” Greg wasn’t sure where the aggression he suddenly felt rising in him was coming from. He and Mycroft had never really been friends so it made little sense for him to be miffed about the lack of communication between the two in recent years and he had understood the reasons. He wasn’t one to hold a grudge anyway. 

His brain easily supplied the memory of seeing Mycroft the previous night along with the growing tug of something in his chest. The last time they had seen each other, Greg was a married man. Now, he wasn’t, and he was free to look and enjoy what he saw. Had he not known better, he would have thought that the posh git had been eye fucking him last night. _No_ , he thought, _the Holmes brothers were cold and detached_. They didn’t deign to stoop to an eye fuck. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true. On many occasions, he had been on the verge of suggesting Sherlock and John get a room, but he was fairly certain that Mycroft did not operate that way. Pushing aside those thoughts, he turned his full attention back to the conversation.

“During our collection of case-related information last night, a pocket notebook was taken that appears to be written in some sort of code.”

“Yes, that would be mine.”

“We could send this over to our cryptologists, however, Detective Inspector—”

“It’s Greg, or Lestrade,” he interrupted.

“Time is of the essence. Would you be willing to come to our office and translate it for us?”

“Um… well… I’d need to check my schedule.”

“No need, Detective Inspector, you are nearly done with your administrative tasks and the call that just came in to Major Crimes has already been assigned to Detective Inspector Dimmock. A car will meet you in front of the building in fifteen minutes. We’ll see you soon.” With that, Mycroft ended the call, leaving Greg sitting in stunned silence before he hung up the receiver. 

****

Mycroft sat behind his desk as he read over the contents of the pocket notebook. His PA, Anthea, had brought it into his office an hour earlier. 

_“They believe it is written in code, possibly with a Latin base, sir. I thought I’d bring it to you before sending it over to Cryptology since you have a knack for languages and today’s crossword was… lacking.”_

_He had taken the notebook eagerly, ready for a bit of a distraction from his tedious day, because she had been right: the crossword in the Times had been rather poorly constructed. Opening the notebook to the first page, he stared at the abysmal chicken scratch with a bit of distaste and made a mental note to ensure that handwriting was still something taught in schools. He was able to discern that the writing was a jumble of abbreviated words and symbols. The_ _diacritical marks and spelling indicated that the words were in a Latin-based language. His money was on either French or Italian. The symbols were a bit more difficult to narrow down. He blamed his lack of sleep the previous night for not being able to place them. A quarter of an hour later, he flipped the cover of the notebook shut and noticed the name on its cover: ‘DI Lestrade’. He quirked an eyebrow. He had known that the man was intelligent, but this surprised him. On impulse, he called the Detective Inspector to come over and translate. His heart rate picked up a bit. He always enjoyed uncovering new information about a colleague, especially if it was something like this. He had underestimated the DI and was now being shown that the man had hidden depths. He wasn’t just a pretty face. This intrigued him._

He had been alerted when the Detective Inspector entered the building. It would take exactly five minutes to pass through the three security checkpoints and be led to his office. Mycroft felt a twinge of apprehension which was uncommon for a meeting with a man he had an acquaintance with for years. While he knew many facts of the man’s life due to the file compiled by one of his assistants, he did not know much about the man personally. He had fought the urge to up the man’s surveillance status over the years. He already used it too often for observing his brother. It wouldn’t do to observe someone who he had little chance of forming an actual attachment to. His inability to lie to the man was concerning enough, not to mention that the DI had started making an appearance in his personal fantasies. The man was very attractive, apparently more intelligent than he let on, and could have his pick of partners, if he ever opened himself back up again. What on earth would he want with an uptight bureaucrat like himself? 

He shoved those thoughts aside and briefly checked his appearance in the mirror of the lavatory off his office. He slid the metaphorical mask back on. It would not do to allow personal thoughts and feelings to slip out. With a practiced ease, he stood in front of his desk facing the door, crossed his right leg in front of his left, and leaned his right hip against the desk. He grabbed the notebook and began flipping through it again. Just in time too, as there was a gentle rap at his door before Anthea ushered in a cool-looking Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

“Ah, good morning Detective Inspector. Thank you for coming down so quickly. This is a rather time sensitive matter.”

“Yeah, I got that, what with the telling me to come and sending one of your kidnap cars for me.”

His lips twitched up into a small smile. “Yes, quite. Please, have a seat,” he gestured to one of the chairs in front of him. “Tea?”

“Um… yeah, thanks.”

Mycroft casually reached across the desk to his intercom and called for service before taking the chair across from his guest.

“As I mentioned over the phone, we found a notebook among the documents collected from your team last night that appears to be written in code. I believe it is yours.” He raised a questioning eyebrow and gestured to the notebook in his hand, knowing full well whose notebook it was.

Greg nodded. “That’s mine. I hadn’t had the chance to transcribe it before you lot swooped in and stole the case from us.”

“We hardly stole the case, Detective Inspector. It was merely connected to a much larger one we are currently working, so we acquired it.”

“Acquired it, stole it, whatever. It’s your team who will get the credit while mine, who actually took down the local cell and worked their arses off to do so, go unrecognized.”

“I promise you, Detective Inspector—”

“Greg.”

“That if all goes according to plan, your team will be credited for the capture of the drugs shipment and the world will hear none of the other details pertaining to this case. Should it go poorly… well, no one will hear about that either. We do not look for credit in this office.”

“No, you’re right. It’s all very cloak and dagger here. You _are_ the British government, after all.”

Anthea walked in with a silver tea service which held a pot of tea, two china cups on saucers, a sugar bowl, and a milk jar. Greg looked slightly embarrassed at possibly having been heard. Mycroft, smiling inwardly at his unease, began pouring the tea. Ever polite, he handed the first cup to Greg, who added a splash of milk and one sugar. Mycroft added nothing. Good tea was like good coffee: it needed no assistance and was best drunk black.

“If we could drop the defensiveness for a moment and return to the task at hand?” He quirked an eyebrow. Greg nodded his ascent. “While we could hand your notebook over to Cryptology, it would be more efficient if you could help us translate it, or at the very least, clue us into the breakdown. Latin base, obviously.”

“French.”

“Ah, yes. Some English too.”

“A combination of the two, plus shorthand.”

“Not an English shorthand though.”

“Duployan.”

“I was not aware that you were fluent in French.”

“Not in that file of yours?”

Mycroft gave a sardonic smile. “Contrary to popular belief, my knowledge is not all-encompassing.”

Greg sighed, clearly not believing him. “Yeah, my gran was French. She lived with us until I was ten. She watched my brothers and me while Mum was at work.”

“And she taught you.”

“It’s all she spoke. We learned to read and write in French before we ever learned English.”

“So, in your harried state, you revert to a mixture of the two languages.”

“Exactly.”

“And the shorthand?”

Greg shrugged. “She had been a stenographer. She taught me. I’ve always taken notes this way. I usually transcribe them before they’re seen by anyone else.” He chuckled. “I’d have to transcribe them anyway. My handwriting’s shit.”

“Hmm…”

“So, you want me to go ahead and do that? It’s just about a week’s worth that hasn’t been typed up yet. I can take it back to the office and email you the file by either the end of the day or tomorrow by lunch, at the latest.”

“I’m sorry, I cannot permit that, Detective Inspector—”

“Greg,” he corrected. “And why not?”

“Nothing leaves the building. This is no longer a local, or even national, case. Every precaution must be taken.”

“So, what? I’m assuming that you want me to be the one to transcribe it. Otherwise, this conversation could have happened over the phone. We haven’t discussed anything that could be considered classified.”

Mycroft gave a grudging nod.

“I didn’t bring my laptop, though I doubt you’d let me use it anyway. So, will I be reading this aloud for a recording or typing this up on some government computer?”

“I’ll have you dictate it to one of the secretaries. Madison should be free. I’ll have Anthea take you down and she’ll give Madison a copy.” He pushed a button on the intercom. Anthea came in and Greg stood, looking a bit abashed. “Thank you for coming in, Detective Inspector. It is much appreciated.” 

Greg followed the woman wordlessly out the door

****

Greg was running on empty. He had just spent the better part of an hour transcribing for Madison. She had been efficient, however; she had many questions about his writing and had asked him to show her the basics of the Duployan shorthand. As he was walking out the door of her office, he found Anthea waiting for him, typing away on her Blackberry. 

“I’m to take you back to Mr Holmes’ office.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “And what does Mr Holmes what now?” he asked while falling into step beside the woman.

“Uhhh…” she said distractedly, “questions regarding the case.”

“And he couldn’t email them or call me about them tomorrow?”

Anthea gave him a sideways look as they stepped inside the lift to go back up to Mr Holmes’ office. When they arrived, Anthea pocketed her cell phone and rapped twice on the door. When they heard “Enter,” she opened it and ushered Greg back inside, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft looked up from the open folders spread before him on the desk. “Thank you for stopping by again, Detective Inspector.”

Greg was too tired to even try to correct him. He stood behind the chairs and willed this meeting to end as quickly as possible.

“I just had a few questions regarding the case. If you don’t mind indulging me?”

“It’s all in the notes.”

“I am aware. However, I would like to hear it in your own words.”

“And this really can’t wait until later? I have a division to run.”

Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “This shouldn’t take long, Detective Inspector.” His smile only curled up a bit more at the edges when Greg huffed at the title. “What do you know about Boris Reznik?”

“He’s what all this is about?” He searched Mycroft’s face, but could not see anything to betray the man’s thoughts. “I know that he’s a drug lord out of Czechia. He and his crew have developed a highly addictive and dangerous version of coke. It’s spread throughout central Europe and has finally arrived here. That recipe was used for the drugs we seized yesterday.”

“You’re sure.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’d stake my career on it.”

“The lab hasn’t come back yet. At least, not for you. How can you be so certain?”

“Because Robbie Cummings, one of the guys we arrested last night, the group’s ringleader, is also known as Robert Reznik. Boris’s youngest brother.”

“Yes, that is correct. I assume my brother clued you in?”

Greg wanted to make a comment about what happens when one assumes something but thought better of it. “Actually, no.”

Mycroft, for the briefest moment, looked surprised. 

Fighting a grin, Greg continued, “I came across Robbie’s real name while we were doing some research into his history. The name Reznik stuck out. I knew that I had seen it somewhere before. Turns out, Interpol sent out an advisory about Reznik six months ago.” He shrugged. “I connected the dots and called your brother in just to expedite the process of proving that Robbie and Boris were connected.”

Mycroft looked as though he didn’t know what to say. It was clear that he had thought it was Sherlock who had made the connection.

“Not so useless after all, eh?”

“I never said that.”

“No, of course not. You just think we rely too heavily on him. And for a while, we did. But now it’s strictly on an as-needed basis. I am rather good at my job, you know.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment. A bit too long for colleagues, if Greg was being completely honest with himself. It was as if Mycroft was searching for something, but he wasn’t sure what. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the moment was gone. Greg cleared his throat and stood up a bit straighter.

“Well, if that’s everything, Mycroft,” Greg extended his hand across the desk.

“For now, yes.” Mycroft reached out and took it. That look flashed in his eyes again but Greg just shook it off, sent him a small smile, then turned to leave.

He paused at the door. “Mycroft, do you think…”

“Do I think what Detective Inspector?” Mycroft had gone back to reading the contents of the open file but brought his eyes up briefly, not outright dismissing the man.

Greg sighed, having given up on the name thing. “Once we get this all sorted, do you think I could get my notebook back?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “That seems rather unlikely. The documents we collect all go directly into the file.”

“Well, you lot can have the pages it’s all written on. But it only takes up about ten pages of that notebook. I’d like to have it back.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “It is just a notebook, Detective Inspector. I’m sure your department has a budget for replacing such things.”

“Well, yeah they do,” Greg rubbed his hand down his face in an exhausted gesture. “But that’s my last Weather Writer. The department can order the brand, but it won’t be the same. The company changed the formula for the wax coating of the pages in 2015. I’ve found it doesn’t hold up as well to the London weather. So, I ordered two cases of the old notebooks before they stopped selling them. That,” he gestured to the notebook in Mycroft’s hand, “is my last one.”

Mycroft heaved an inaudible sigh and pondered Greg’s face for a moment before saying, “I’ll see what I can do. No promises though, Detective Inspector.” Greg nodded then walked out the door.

****

Mycroft sat back in his desk chair and contemplated the conversation. What he had originally thought of the Detective Inspector’s involvement had been incorrect. He was again impressed by the man and had been fairly certain that the DI had been ‘checking him out’ throughout both of their meetings. It had been a pleasant surprise and he was rather curious to see if it would lead to anything else. It seemed obvious that he would need to be the one to initiate any further contact. The man did not seem likely to be the first to extend his hand in friendship again. His analytical mind began to work. A plan was needed, and Mycroft thought he had just the idea. He pressed the intercom button.

“Anthea?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need you to find something for me.”


	4. Greg Lestrade and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

5 March

16:28

_Fuck this day_ , Greg thought as he trudged up the stairs to his office. He had been called out at four that morning to a crime scene. It had not been pretty, and that was all he was going to say on the matter. Then, when he had stepped out for lunch, some idiot had decided it would be a great idea to rob the chip shop precisely as he was getting in the queue. The guy ran as soon as Greg identified himself, and of course, he gave chase, along with several other officers who were also in the shop. The thief hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going and ended up in the Thames. Water rescue had to be called out and it was a huge ordeal. As he was walking back to the Met, the sky opened up, soaking him to the skin. Then, to top it all off, the lifts were out of order, so he now had to take the stairs. This day could fuck right off. He rather felt like that kid in that story his nephew loved so much, the kid who had the shite day and decided to fuck off to Australia. 

The stairs didn’t give Greg any trouble. He was in good shape. Although he was nearing fifty, he kept active. He’d never be as fit as he had been in his twenties, but regular rugby games with the lads and running several times a week kept him healthy. No, he was just mad about the principle of the thing. After the day he had, he deserved to be able to ride the lift and plop down in his relatively comfortable desk chair with a cup of crap coffee and if he were very lucky, there would be leftover doughnuts in the break room.

As he walked onto his floor, he pulled out his new pocket notebook, trying to remember a few details of the morning’s case. When he saw that the ink on several pages had been smeared due to the rain, he wanted to chuck it at the wall and just go home. Maybe he would fuck off to Australia. Instead, he resigned himself in, took a deep breath, then entered his office. Sitting atop his desk was a large package. Greg inched closer and could see that it was clearly addressed to him. No return label though. 

He stuck his head out his office door and hollered at Donovan, “What is this?”

“What’s what?” Sally quickly got up from her desk, only stopping to haphazardly close the open file on her desk and came up beside him.

“This,” he gestured, “on my desk. I swear to fucking Christ, Donovan, if it’s another body part or a,” here he lowered his voice to almost a whisper, “bomb, I’m done. I’ll walk out that door and I won’t come back.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

He conceded, “Probably not. But I’d be calling in for the rest of the week.”

She raised her eyebrows at him sceptically. 

“Okay, for tomorrow. You didn’t see it brought in?”

“Nope, just got in myself. I’m sure it’s been screened.”

He was too exhausted to deal with this. “Check on it for me, will you?”

Sally went back to her desk to make the call. Greg decided to stay where he was, just in case. Every piece of mail, every package that came into the Met, had to be screened. In this day and age, you had too many weirdos who would try to send the police stuff in the mail. A few Christmases back, someone tried to send in a tin of biscuits laced with cyanide. From then on, any food that was mailed in or dropped off, that wasn’t take away someone in the building had ordered, was disposed of immediately. 

“Johnson says it’s good,” Sally said, appearing back at his side. “You never have anything shipped here. What did you order?”

“I didn’t order anything. Johnson didn’t give any indication of what it was?”

“Nope,” she shrugged. “Go on then, open it up.” She led the way back into his office, grabbed his nice letter opener from the desk, and handed it to him.

Greg took it then sliced open the packing tape. Setting the letter opener to the side, he pulled back the top flaps to reveal a case of two hundred Weather Writer pocket notebooks. 

“Notebooks?” Sally asked. “Why’d this come to you? Shouldn’t it have gone to Gayle in Admin?”

“No,” Greg said in a quiet voice. “These are for me.” Suddenly feeling rather shy, he pulled the packing slip out of the box and checked the manufacturer's date: 2014. Paperclipped to the slip was a business card. He wouldn’t have taken much notice of it if the card stock hadn’t been so nice. It was a crisp white and very heavy. One side read: Mycroft Holmes, and a telephone number. On the opposite side in an elegant handwritten script, someone (Mycroft) had written: 

_All I could find on short notice._

_-MH_

_P.S. This is what proper handwriting should look like._

It was all written in code. Greg’s code.

He grinned and pulled out his phone, took a photo of the open box, then texted Mycroft.

_Thank you. But it wasn’t necessary._

_16:32_

_This is Greg, by the way._

_16:32_

_I tested the quality of the wax coating. You are correct._ _The formula prior to 2015 is far superior._ _I couldn’t allow one of London’s finest to use subpar materials. – MH_

_16:33_

_So, this is for the whole department then?_

_16:33_

_Did the entire department have their notebooks_ _taken into evidence by the British Government? – MH_

_16:34_

_All for me then._

_16:34_

_That was the idea. Yes. – MH_

_16:36_

_You sure know how to make a bloke feel special._

_16:36_

Greg waited a few moments, but a reply didn’t come. Still grinning, he set his mobile down and began unpacking the box. At some point during his text conversation with Mycroft, Sally had left the room. He had been so wrapped up in his flirtation with the man that he hadn’t even noticed. 

Wait. Had it been flirtation? Mycroft wasn’t one to just do something nice for the sake of it. He did things to further his plans. Greg had already transcribed the old notebook for him. What more could Mycroft want? _Maybe he wants you_ , he thought briefly before squashing it down. Why on earth would someone like Mycroft want to be with a greying DI? It was a ridiculous thought. However, he couldn’t keep the small smile from his face after he stored the notebooks in his cabinet and set one onto his desk. He grabbed his favourite pen and began transferring notes from the water-stained notebook. Maybe today hadn’t been so bad after all.


	5. Coffee

27 March

22:35

Two dead. One in custody. Sherlock was being fussed over by medics while he tried to convince them that he was perfectly fine and any patching up he needed, and he did need it, could be done by John. John, who was holding an ice pack to his own head was trying to get him to shut up and just accept the help. Greg rolled his eyes at the scene and went back to coordinating with forensics. 

“Detective Inspector,” a uniformed officer called out to him from across the car park, “you’ll wanna have a look at this.” The young man handed the perp over to another officer who escorted him to one of the waiting panda cars.

Greg excused himself from the lead forensics tech and strode over to the man. “What’ve you got Hodgkins?”

The young man held up a sandwich bag full of a white powder. On the bottom left corner, a few words were printed in what looked like a Slavic language. They were the same as all the others that had been popping up all over London.

“Found these on ‘im,” Hodgkins drawled. “Says they’re not ‘is, but they were in a pocket of ‘is cargo shorts which was zipped up. Think this is the same as the ones that were on the bodies?”

Greg sighed. “I’d put money on it. We’ll need to get that over to the lab.” He clapped his hand on the officer’s shoulder and headed back to the warehouse where his team had congregated. 

The coroner had arrived and was loading up the bodies. The first had been a rough-looking man, early thirties. He had been arrested multiple times for possession. The other seemed out of place. He had been stocky and almost seemed bookish. He didn’t seem the type to be buying or selling cocaine. Sherlock had pointed out a few marks on the man’s hands and insisted that he had been a chemist. Maybe he had been their cook.

Greg took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. They had sent a uniformed officer to the McDonald’s around the corner to bring back coffees when they first arrived. It was the only place still open in the area. It had been burnt and was quite awful, but caffeine was caffeine, and he had drunk worse. Surveying the scene, he noticed that both Sherlock and John were no longer by the medics. They were now outside the police line standing in front of a sleek black town car. His stomach did a funny little flip and he felt the corners of his mouth curve up into a small smile. They were talking to Mycroft.

_No_ , Greg thought, trying to quash the warm feeling. _Mycroft isn’t here to see you, he’s here to talk to Sherlock. Clearly the cocaine was Reznik’s recipe. If Mycroft wants to speak to you, he will. Get it together, man._ With a bit of effort, he turned back around to the crime scene and went to find Donovan. 

After a few moments, however, he felt a prickle at the back of his neck, as though someone was staring at him. He looked up to find Mycroft standing by himself outside of his car, leaning on that ridiculous umbrella. Greg quickly excused himself from the tangle of people and walked over to the man.

“Evening, Mycroft,” he nodded.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Greg.”

Mycroft’s lips quirked slightly to one side for the briefest of moments. “I understand that my brother was helping you with a particularly tricky case.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “This was one he was working actually, we got brought in a few hours ago, what with the murders and all that.”

“Quite.”

“But you already knew that Reznik’s cocaine was involved, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“I have my ways.”

He snorted. “Oh, come off it. It was you who gave him the case. The only thing I can’t figure out is why you lot didn’t storm in and take over all this.” He gestured to the chaotic scene around him.

“Really?” Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow.

Greg took a sip of the awful coffee and made a face. “I blame it on the shit coffee,” he said gesturing to the cup. “I’m not firing on all cylinders.”

Mycroft suppressed a smirk. “Simple, Detective Inspector—”

“Greg.”

“We knew it was related; however, we believe it is a slightly different recipe and being distributed a bit differently. Sherlock has his… homeless network who works a lot better with him than with us.”

“Ah, being strategic with your resources.”

“Precisely.”

They were quiet for a beat; Greg wasn’t sure how to prolong the conversation any further. They just stared at each other. Perhaps for a bit longer than was socially acceptable for two colleagues. Were they colleagues? Sort of. Not really.

Shaking himself a bit, Greg nodded back at the crime scene. “Well, I should be getting back. Am I to assume that you will be needing our reports?”

“You assume correctly.”

“Can I get them to you tomorrow, around noon? I’ll have all my notes transcribed by then. We’re probably going to be out here for another few hours.”

“That will be acceptable. My team should have received the analysis of the drugs by then.”

“Right. Thanks. Have a good night, Mycroft.”

“Yes, good night.”

Greg smiled at him, then turned and walked off. After a few steps, he thought he heard Mycroft add, “Gregory.” His grin widened, but he refused to look back. 

Donovan met him at the warehouse door. The team had found more bags of cocaine in an air vent. They would need to call in the sniffer dogs. He took another swig of his coffee and grimaced. That was enough of that. He passed the cup off to a uniformed officer and told him to bin it. 

Five minutes later, a loud wolf whistle rang out from the gaggle of crime scene techs, which caught everyone’s attention. A posh looking woman in a tan trench, hair in a chignon, large takeaway coffee cup in one hand, and eyes glued to her Blackberry could be seen walking up to the police line.

“Hey, pretty lady!” the tech called out.

“Oi!” Greg exclaimed, whipping around pointing a chastening finger at him. The man seemed to hunch in on himself and scuttled away. Greg walked over to the tape to meet her. “Anthea, does Mycroft need me?”

Had she not been so utterly posh, Greg would have described the sound that escaped her to be a snort. “You have no idea.”

“Sorry?” he said, confused.

Sparing him only the briefest of glances, she handed him the cup of coffee. “This is yours, Detective Inspector.” She threw him a small smile, then turned on her heel and walked away. 

Greg was rather dumbstruck. Not knowing what else to do, he took a tentative sip of the warm beverage. His eyes immediately closed. Had he not been at a crime scene he would have moaned in pleasure. It was absolutely perfect.

****

28 March

06:02

_Hey, thanks for the coffee last night._ _I’m sorry I’m only now saying ‘thank you’._ _It’s been a long night/morning. Just got home._

_06:02_

_Good morning, Detective Inspector. I’m glad it helped. – MH_

_06:03_

_Greg, please. You’ve given me notebooks and coffee._ _Something tells me that you, Mycroft Holmes, don’t do_ _that very often._

_06:03_

_That assumption would be correct. – MH_

_06:04_

_Gregory. – MH_

_06:04_

_:D And why would that be?_

_06:05_

_I refuse to communicate with cartoon faces. It would be_ _appreciated if, in future, you would refrain from sending them,_ _Detective Inspector. – MH_

_06:06_

_::gif of Elmo shrugging::_

_06:06_

_What the HELL is that? – MH_

_06:06_

_A GIF._

_06:07_

_Better?_

_06:07_

_If I were a man who sent cartoon faces, I’d send one with_ _a disapprovingly raised eyebrow. – MH_

_06:08_

_lol! Anyway. Thank you. For the coffee._

_06:09_

_It was my pleasure. – MH_

_06:09_


	6. Texting

End of March, Early April

Over the next few weeks, a cautious dialogue began to open up between the two men. A dialogue that was not strictly work related. Cases continued to crop up all over London where a certain kind of cocaine was in some way involved. However, that was the only similarity in them. This meant more interactions with one another. Greg didn’t mind in the least. Mycroft’s kindness had surprised him. He had begun to realize that he had been thinking about the man a bit more than was probably normal. More often than not, they would have at least a brief correspondence on a daily basis. It started out as thank you’s for the notebooks and the coffee, then turned into almost daily updates on the Reznik case. 

Several more drug dealers had been found dead, carrying a slight variant of Reznik’s cocaine. Their working theory was that Reznik was taking out those who had stolen his recipe and tried to pass it off as their own. While several in the police service didn’t care to pay much mind to “low lives who were just taking each other out”, Greg knew that this was all part of a much larger problem. He had been surprised when Mycroft’s team hadn’t completely taken over the case and allowed, or more correctly, used the Met to do their leg work. He supposed it made sense; Mycroft’s people could do their cloak and dagger thing and the Met would be the public face. It made it less likely for Reznik and his lackeys to suspect anyone could actually bring them down. However, more often within the last few days, Greg had noticed that their conversations had shifted to a more personal nature. 

To an outsider, and even to Greg, on the surface it appeared perfectly friendly. Two men who worked together building a friendship. And yes, that was what was happening, but Greg found himself longing to text Mycroft throughout his days. He had begun marking time by how long it had been since they last spoke. If something funny or interesting happened at the office, he thought about texting Mycroft about it. When Sherlock was annoying, he wanted to text Mycroft about it. 

He very rarely gave in to that impulse. However, a few days ago, he hadn’t been able to resist. 

Sherlock and John had been filling out paperwork in his office regarding a recent case and Sherlock hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than John’s mouth while the man bit down on the top of his pen, deep in thought. Greg had surreptitiously snapped a photo on his phone and sent it to Mycroft with a quick message:

_::PHOTO::_

_15:23_

_I think we should be expecting a happy_ _announcement by the end of the week._

_15:23_

_It certainly took long enough. – MH_

_15:30_

_How high is the NSY pool up to? – MH_

_15:30_

_£2000_

_15:35_

He felt it was all rather normal, until he started thinking about Mycroft outside of the office. He found himself wondering what Mycroft did in his spare time, if he had spare time. Certainly, the man was a workaholic, but surely he took time out for himself. Greg wanted to know what made Mycroft tick. What he was interested in, what foods he liked, what music he listened to on a day-to-day basis. He wanted to know everything. 

He slowly began to realize that the little flipping sensation in his stomach and desire to be in constant contact with the man was rather a bit more than a friendly interest. He was _interested_ in Mycroft. And Mycroft was maybe interested in Greg too. He had done two really nice things for Greg. Nicer than most of his friends or even his ex-wife had ever been to him. Albeit, it was in a very roundabout way, but he found that he liked it all the same. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time. Not since he and Kathy had started dating. He needed to find out if Mycroft truly was just being nice or if he was, in fact, flirting. 

Knowing that the man never did anything in the conventional sense, Greg decided that he would need to be a bit more forward than he usually was. He had gone on a few dates since the divorce, but nothing had panned out. This attraction, or whatever it was with Mycroft, had him excited and ready to find out if the feeling was mutual. 

Not wanting to startle the man, he started off slowly. He texted Mycroft later in the day, after he had returned home, and gave him some vague information he had learned on the case. After a few moments of talking about work, Greg had transitioned into the slightly more personal realm. He was sure to tread carefully. While he knew that Mycroft didn’t spook easily, he didn’t want to mess this up. He wanted Mycroft to want him. He would be forward with his flirtation, but not blatant. 

It slowly developed into a more natural conversation. Yes, they would talk about work, but that wasn’t their main focus. They had taken to texting in the evenings, around nine or later, watching telly or reading in their separate homes but keeping each other company via text. It was nice. Even if it never turned into anything, he hoped this would continue for a long time to come.

****

_Hey, how’s your day been?_

_20:18_

_Good evening, Gregory. My day was productive._ _I assume that your day went well. – MH_

_20:20_

_In the sense that no one was injured or killed,_ _yes. Spent all of it in the office, actually. But you_ _already knew that, didn’t you?_

_20:21_

_What on earth would make you think that? – MH_

_20:21_

_(o_O)_

_20:2_

_Good god, man. How many times must you send_ _those infernal things? – MH_

_20:22_

_I just like to rile you up. ;D_

_20:22_

_What are you up to?_

_20:22_

_If you must know, I am having quite a wonderful_ _glass of Cabernet and learning about the craft_ _of bread making. – MH_

_20:23_

_You’re watching Bake Off, aren’t you?_

_20:23_

_And so what if I am? – MH_

_20:24_

_Nothing. It’s a nice show, if you like that_ _sort of thing. I’m more for the footie myself._

_20:24_

_Well colour me surprised. – MH_

_20:25_

_Ha ha. Who are you rooting for?_

_20:25_

_While the people on the show may be in_ _competition with one another, I do_ _not have a personal stake in it. I enjoy_ _watching the process and seeing the_ _different techniques. – MH_

_20:27_

_You were rooting for Sanjay weren’t you?_

_20:28_

_Mad that he was sent home during pastry week?_

_20:28_

_His technical was rather poorly executed,_ _yes, and the showstopper was mediocre at best._ _However, Daphne did worse overall and should have_ _been the one sent home. – MH_

_20:30_

_Chin up, maybe they’ll bring him back for the_ _Christmas special. That, or you could use your_ _super-secret government channels and get him_ _pastry lessons._

_20:32_

_I would never. Besides, we only influence_ _pedestrian entertainment when absolutely_ _necessary. – MH_

_20:32_

_What?! Oh, please do tell me more._

_20:33_

_._

_Classified. – MH_

_20:33_

_On come on, you can’t just drop that on a_ _bloke without giving details._

_20:34_

_What about a hypothetical?_

_20:34_

_Suppose one were to learn of a computer virus meant_ _to target people and influence their behaviour via a device_ _the population uses constantly. One might work with a certain_ _science fiction broadcast to put the population off that_ _piece of technology. Hypothetically speaking, of course. – MH_

_20:43_

_OH MY GOD! You’re influencing Doctor Who?!_ _Next you’re going to tell me you’ve been one of_ _the writers for years._

_20:44_

_Don’t be absurd, Gregory. Of course we don’t_ _influence those sorts of things. – MH_

_20:44_

_Sure. ;D_

_20:44_

_If you insist on continuing to use those poor excuses_ _for hieroglyphics, I shall end this conversation. – MH_

_20:45_

_All right. All right. You win._

_20:45_

_Other than harassing me, how are you spending your_ _leisure time? – MH_

_20:46_

_...Bake Off._

_20:47_

_But I’m drinking coffee._

_20:47_

_At this hour? – MH_

_20:47_

_Decaf._

_20:47_

_What are your thoughts on Martin's “bread sculpture”?_

_20:50_

_He didn’t proof it long enough. – MH_

_20:50_

_It’s also rather phallic shaped._

_20:50_

_Quite. – MH_

_20:50_

_Paul’s not going to like Kate’s flavour combo._

_20:51_

_Certainly not. Prue might though. – MH_

_20:51_

_Ha. No she won’t._

_20:51_

_Definitely not “worth the calories.” – MH_

_20:51_

_That’s what she said about Kathy’s treacle_ _tart the last Christmas we were together._

_20:52_

_Kathy, your ex-wife? – MH_

_20:52_

_Yep._

_20:52_

_You and your ex-wife spent Christmas with Prue? – MH_

_20:53_

_Yeah. The all knowing Mycroft missed_ _that in his research?_

_20:53_

_JK._

_20:53_

_Prue is Kathy’s aunt._

_20:53_

_I’ll be honest, I was much sadder to lose_ _Prue in the divorce than I was about Kathy._

_20:54_

_I would be too. – MH_

_20:54_

_You’ve really met Prue? – MH_

_20:54_

_Yes. I bet I still have her number. Want me to_ _set up an introduction?_

_20:54_

_Thank you. No. If I really wanted to, I could, as you say, use_ _my “super-secret government channels.” Besides,_ _I would be even more tempted to bake than I currently am. – MH_

_20:55_

_Mycroft Holmes, you bake?_

_20:55_

_No. – MH_

_20:55_

_Not much anymore. – MH_

_20:55_

_Why’d you stop?_

_20:55_

_Looks like Martin’s going to be sent home. – MH_

_20:56_

_Nope, Kate did worse overall._

_20:56_

_They don’t like Martin’s attitude. It will be him. – MH_

_20:56_

_Damn. Do they leak the results to you? Your_ _super-secret government channels?_

_21:00_

_What do you think? – MH_

_21:00_

_You tell me Cloak and Dagger._

_21:00_

_Good evening, Gregory. – MH_

_21:02_

_Night, Mycroft. Sleep well. (-_-) zzz_

_21:02_


	7. Coq au Vin

12 April

18:45

Greg breathed a contented sigh as he exited a side door of The Met. It was one of those rare days in early spring that you could get away with just wearing a light jacket. The sun had begun to set, and the sky was on its way to resembling an impressionist painting. He loved walking home on evenings like these. His commute was relatively easy, just a quick trip on the tube and a brief walk through a shopping district and he would be home. 

As it was the start of his weekend, he decided to stop by the grocers and pick up some things for a nice dinner. Greg didn’t cook as often as he would like, but it was always relaxing, and he got a good meal out of it. He began running through different recipes in his head as he tried to decide what to make. He had just ruled out a complicated dish his mother used to make when he felt the hair on his neck stand up. Years of police training and experience began to kick in, but before he could react, he sensed a presence at his left elbow. He cut his eyes quickly in the direction of his new companion and immediately relaxed.

“Mycroft.”

“Detective Inspector,” the well-groomed man replied.

“Back to honorifics now, eh?” Greg quirked an eyebrow and kept walking.

Mycroft flushed slightly. “Gregory. Good evening.”

“Good evening yourself. To what do I owe the pleasure of you popping up randomly on my walk home?”

“I hardly ‘popped up randomly’,” he scoffed and swung his ever-present umbrella back and forth ever so slightly.

Greg suppressed a grin. “So, what do you call joining a bloke midway through his walk and acting like you’ve been there the whole time?” He finally gave in and smirked at Mycroft’s sudden loss for words. “You know,” he continued, “it’s not nearly as endearing as you think it is.”

Mycroft sputtered, seemingly taken aback before stating, “I merely have new information regarding the case on which we are working together and needed to relay it to you.”

“No, it’s Friday and I’m off the clock. If you want to discuss the case, we’re ‘working on together’,” here he used air quotes, “you can talk to me on Monday after 9:00.” Without missing a beat, he entered the grocers, picked up a basket, and began filling it with the items he would need for that evening’s dinner. 

“But Detective Inspector — ”

“Greg.”

“But Gregory — ”

“But nothing. If it were really important you would have had Anthea or one of your other lackeys kidnap me in one of those dark town cars they’re always driving around in. You joining me on my walk home and through the market...” at this, Mycroft looked up and seemed to realize exactly where he was. Greg took a mental snapshot of the expression on the man’s face. It was so rare to catch him unawares. Greg was sure the image would bring a smile to his lips every time he remembered it. “It just proves that whatever it is you have to say about the case is unimportant, and even less sensitive. You would never mention something like that in public if it actually were a matter of importance.”

“You believe you know me so well — ” he began as he tried to regain his air of superiority, but Greg cut him off.

“I do know you so well, Mycroft Holmes. We’ve been talking and texting for weeks now. And before that, we were something like friends for several years before you ghosted me.”

“I hardly ghosted you. Ghosting implies — ”

“It applies to friendships too. The point is, I know when you’re bullshitting.” He stopped in front of the market’s small wine selection and began scanning the shelf of reds. “Now, I know that the options here are limited, but which Burgundy would you recommend?”

“What?” For the second time in their short encounter, Mycroft appeared to be at a bit of a loss. Greg thought he had an idea of what had gotten into the man today but thought it best to test his theory.

“I’m familiar with the basics,” he said, gesturing to the wines, “but not much more than that. I assume you know rather a bit more about wine than I do.”

Mycroft paused briefly and appeared to be mentally shaking himself out of whatever fog he was in. “Will you be using it for drinking or cooking?”

Greg shook his head and tried to suppress a little grin, failing miserably. “Mycroft, to quote your brother, ‘you see, but you do not observe.’” He gestured to the basket, showing off what was inside.

“Coq au Vin?”

Greg nodded.

Mycroft cleared his throat and quickly scanned the shelves, then picked up two bottles. “This one for drinking, and this one for cooking,” he said, gesturing to each bottle in turn.

“Good, thank you.” Greg reached for the bottles one at a time to place them in his basket. As he grabbed the second bottle, he let his hand brush over Mycroft’s and linger just a bit longer than necessary. Mycroft flushed slightly and stepped back, trying to replace his mask of indifferent superiority. 

Greg let out a small sigh. He was exhausted with the little back and forth game of flirting he was sure they were engaging in. It seemed very clear when they were texting, or even talking on the phone. However, whenever they were actually face-to-face, Mycroft seemed to shrink away. Greg was aware that, in public at least, Mycroft probably had to keep his distance. Any public relationship he might engage in could potentially cause problems with his work. Greg had no desire to push Mycroft into doing something unwise, but he was very attracted to the man and was certain that those feelings were mutual.  _ Fuck it _ , he thought and decided to just go for it.

He stepped closer. “Mycroft, we have been dancing around this…” he waved his hand between them, “thing between us for weeks now. I think I’ve made it rather obvious that I am interested. If you want this, do something about it.” He gave the man a lingering once-over that, in a lesser man, might have been referred to as a leer. He then turned around and walked over to the till, leaving Mycroft rooted to the spot. Greg paid and walked towards the door, then paused briefly and turned back to Mycroft. “Well, are you coming?”

“Um…” Mycroft nodded, then seeming to finally catch up with his brain, followed Greg out the door.

After walking a bit in companionable silence, Greg grinned slyly and handed Mycroft the package with the bottles of wine. “I assume you haven’t eaten yet. Come on, I’m just up the road.”

Mycroft followed him mutely. It was not an unpleasant silence, just one filled with the twinge of excitement and a bit of nerves. Greg really didn’t have a plan, other than to make dinner and for the two of them to spend some real time together. He wasn’t sure if he could refer to what they were doing as a date, but it felt a bit like one, so he decided to just go with it. 

As he turned the key in the lock to his flat, he said a quick thank you to whatever god might be listening that he had the foresight to thoroughly clean the place earlier in the week. He had a nice little one-bedroom that he was rather proud of. He had taken a lot of furniture with him after the divorce, most of it in very good condition, if a bit on the older side. He had lucked out and an entire wall of his living room was a built-in bookcase. His books, films, and music collection crowded the space, along with a few photos and an ancient record player. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was nice, and it was home. 

Greg kicked off his shoes at the entry and gestured for Mycroft to do the same before he led the way into the spacious kitchen and laid the groceries out on the island. He reached into a drawer and pulled out two aprons, tossing one to Mycroft who looked a bit bewildered. 

“Come on, handsome, can’t have you getting that nice suit dirty.”

Mycroft flushed a bit but removed his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair, and obliged, putting on the apron. He undid the cuffs of his shirt, pocketing the cuff links, and rolled up his sleeves. Greg grinned at him as he set out a wooden cutting board and a knife. He directed Mycroft to chop the vegetables and began working on the chicken and pancetta. They fell into comfortable, light conversation. 

Greg revealed that they were using his grandmother’s recipe. He had memorised it as a boy. He recalled standing next to her on a stool in the kitchen, playing sous chef. She had written it down, along with many other recipes, for him when he had moved out of his childhood home. It was all in French of course. Though he knew it and all the others by heart, he still had the box of recipes sitting on the kitchen counter for reference. Mycroft asked about her, and the conversation eventually turned to time he had spent in the Loire Valley before university.

They conversed in a mix of French and English for a bit before the conversation shifted again back to their daily lives: how their workdays had gone and their thoughts on who would be sent home on the next episode of Bake Off. After pouring half the bottle of the wine they designated for cooking into the dutch oven, Greg poured out the remainder into glasses for the two of them. It was a good wine. Far better than what he would have normally purchased if he had been cooking for one. When he expressed this thought to his companion, Mycroft just laughed and said, “Of course. You wouldn’t cook with a wine you wouldn’t drink.”

Mycroft opened the other bottle and set it on the counter to breathe while Greg placed the chicken in the oven and began washing up the few dishes they had used in their preparations. Mycroft fell into place beside him, drying each dish. It felt like a normal occurrence, as if they did this all the time. It was comfortable and they worked well together, finishing in no time at all.

Greg walked over to the oven, checking the timer before leaning casually against the island and sipping his wine. Mycroft joined him, dish towel resting on his shoulder.

“About fifteen minutes left on the Coq au Vin.”

“I wonder,” Mycroft said with a sly smile, “were you trying to insinuate something with that dish?  _ Cock _ au vin?”

Greg had been mid-sip. He flushed and sputtered with laughter, dribbling a bit of wine in the process. Quick as lightning, Mycroft was in front of him, in his personal space. “You’ve got…” he reached up and wiped away a small drop of wine that had escaped Greg’s mouth with the pad of his thumb.

Before he could even stop to think about it, Greg grabbed Mycroft’s hand, brought the thumb to his lips, licked tentatively, then sucked it into his mouth, releasing it with a slight wet pop. Mycroft closed his eyes and groaned.

“Sorry,” Greg said, his voice low and husky, “too good to waste.”

At this, their eyes locked in a heated gaze. Greg’s breath hitched and his focus shifted away from the icy blue eyes that had suddenly appeared to have been set ablaze, to the now wine-stained lips that were slightly parted and all but called out to him. They collided in a clash of lips, teeth, and tongue. It was by no means a sweet kiss, as you would expect a first kiss to be. It was one full of longing and desire. The need to get as close to each other as possible increased. Their aprons came off in a flurry of movement and they began removing clothing with reckless abandon.

Greg growled in frustration at all of Mycroft’s layers: waistcoat, braces, button-down, vest. “Off.”

Mycroft obliged, tossing his shirt and vest onto the floor and helping Greg with his. 

They came back together again, kissing fiercely and allowing their hands to roam the newly bared flesh. Greg luxuriated in the sight and feeling of lean muscle under his hands along with the sparse wiry auburn hair on Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft’s mouth strayed from Greg’s and had found its way to the sensitive spot just below his ear, nipping softly. 

Greg moaned, “Please. Wanna taste you.” He skated his hand over the swell of Mycroft’s erection. “Please.”

The man could only nod in reply. Greg sank down to his knees, grateful for the shirt that had fallen near his feet. He knelt on top of it, not caring if it caused wrinkles. Reverently, he moved his hands to the straining zipper of Mycroft’s trousers and deftly unfastened them, freeing his lover’s erection. He gently pushed the trousers and silk pants down Mycroft’s legs, helping him to step out of the garments, thus giving him better access. He rested his forehead momentarily on Mycroft’s hip, breathing in the scent that was uniquely Mycroft. Slowly, he licked a stripe up one side of his cock, and down the other. He then began to mouth at the head, the foreskin already retracting, as he ran his hands up and down Mycroft’s thighs in a slow, languid motion. “I wonder,” he said after stopping to tongue the frenulum for a moment, “does the wine pair well with your cock?” He looked up at his lover, under heavy lashes, and was pleased to see his gaze darken with lust. 

Greg reached up to the counter for his wine glass and took a small sip, holding it in his mouth and taking just the head of Mycroft’s shaft back into his mouth. He swirled the rich liquid around the firm and weeping member before swallowing it down with a moan. 

Mycroft keened, and rested a hand in Greg’s hair. He quickly tried to remove it, but Greg stopped him. He placed his lover’s hand on the side of his head and encouraged him to grip his hair as he took most of the man’s cock into his mouth in one fluid motion. He began working his lover’s cock, allowing his mouth to be used. To be fucked. He loved the feeling and revelled in the sounds of the man above him.

All too soon, he felt Mycroft’s hands tighten momentarily before loosening and trying to push him away. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed, “Oh god, Gregory. I’m… I’m going to — ”

Greg ignored his protesting hands and took Mycroft down as deep as he could and hummed his enjoyment. At that, Mycroft let out a shout of pure pleasure and came hard down Greg’s throat. Greg swallowed each pulse of bitter fluid down, relishing a job well done. He popped off and grinned up at his lover, savouring the look of utter bliss on the face of the man above him. He grinned and stood up stiffly.

Mycroft pulled him into his arms and kissed him hard, delving his tongue into Greg’s mouth, tasting himself and the wine on Greg’s lips. 

The oven timer began to buzz. With a groan, Greg reached over without even looking at the appliance and silenced it. He turned back to Mycroft, resting their foreheads together and just breathed. 

After a moment, Mycroft began to move closer and placed his knee gently between Greg’s thighs, pressing up against his still clothed erection. Greg moaned and had to restrain himself from rutting against the man’s leg. The need for friction grew stronger by the moment.

Mycroft leaned in and murmured into Greg’s ear, “Let’s get you out of those trousers, hmmm…”

****

Greg didn’t need to be told twice. He hastily shucked his trousers and cotton boxers but tripped while stepping out of them. Mycroft had been trying to move a wine glass out of the way but spilt some down Greg’s chest. 

“God,” Greg laughed, “aren’t I a bit of a mess today.”

“A delicious mess,” Mycroft said, his gaze predatory. He leaned down and lapped at the trails of dark liquid making their way down a lightly sun-kissed chest that had been toned from years of exercise and the occasional pickup game of rugby. The hair at his chest and groin were not as silver as that on his head, but it was well on its way. Greg was past the “salt and pepper” stage and well into “silver fox” territory.

He allowed his hands to wander while his mouth and tongue took their time exploring the expanse of Greg’s chest. His right finally reached down to the place he knew Greg really wanted him and grasped the man’s pulsing, thick cock. He slowly stroked the man with a firm grip, adding a small twist at the end of every few pulls, as he liked to do for himself. The man moaned and wordlessly begged for more. Mycroft obliged and sunk down to the floor to taste his lover. 

It didn’t take very long for Greg to be reduced to nothing more than moans and a few well-placed expletives. He tried, feebly, to warn Mycroft of his impending release, but Mycroft, like Greg, just swallowed him down further and enjoyed the feeling of his lover’s cock in his mouth. 

Greg came, pulsing deep into Mycroft’s throat. He attempted to swallow it all but felt a bit escape him. Greg huffed a laugh, sunk down onto the floor beside him, and licked the last drop of his release off Mycroft’s lips. 

They sat there, content and sated in each other’s arms for a while, and probably would have continued to do so for a while yet, until they smelled something burning. 

“Buggering fuck!” Greg exclaimed. He jumped up off the floor, turned off the oven, grabbed a set of potholders, and removed the now blackened Coq au Vin from the oven. He sighed and set it in the sink. “Well,” he sighed, “that settles it. Chinese?”


	8. The Time I Have

3 May

21:40

The last few weeks had been some of the most pleasurable of Mycroft’s life and it wasn’t only due to the sex. Somehow, Greg just seemed to fit into his highly regimented life. It was mostly in the small moments. They didn’t really go on dates like normal couples would. They spoke regularly and if they both happened to have a spare moment or two, Mycroft would join Greg during the middle of a walk to or from the office. He had begun to schedule his weekly cheat meal around times when he knew that they would be together and had even invited the man to attend the symphony with him later that month. 

Mycroft found that he did not mind the shake-up to his schedule. He was enjoying the company and the change of pace. It was just enough to be exciting, but familiar enough to feel comfortable. Most of his routine he kept the same. At this point in his life, he wasn’t willing to uproot everything for a man. He had worked too hard. He had everything as he liked it. However, he had been willing to bend, even break, his hard and fast rules for those he truly cared about. He did it all the time for his brother. Why not for the man he… Well, he wasn’t going to think about that just yet. 

At the moment, he was ensconced on the sofa in his library with a good book, listening to an Edith Piaf record with a very handsome and relaxed Gregory Lestrade. They had eaten a quiet dinner in his flat and were now enjoying the companionable silence that often falls between two people who are comfortable with one another while they simply share a space. Greg, to Mycroft's amusement, had chosen a true crime book. He would have thought the man had his fill of violent criminals at work.

As the record came to an end, Greg got up and flipped it to the B side. A small smile played on Mycroft’s lips at the familiarity that had grown between them in these few short weeks. He was glad that Greg felt comfortable in his home. He wanted it to stay that way.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of Greg's soft chuckle. He looked up and drank in the man, shorter than himself, but solid and strong. The curve of the man's arse did something to him… mmm, what was that expression? You could bounce a quarter off that arse. He blinked quickly, dismissing the utterly pedestrian thought.

Edith's voice started up again. As La Vie En Rose began to play, he watched as Greg sauntered up to him, hand extended.

"Dance with me."

Mycroft fought the blush that rose to his cheeks and failed miserably. He took the proffered hand and was drawn into the firm arms of his lover.

"Why Gregory," he said, amused, "I wasn't aware you could dance."

"Took a class at uni for a phys ed credit," he grinned and began to move them across the floor.

"You signed up because of a girl."

"The instructor, actually." He flashed a crooked grin. " _ He _ was rather fit. Nothing compared to you though."

Mycroft blushed again as he felt a hand slip down to rest possessively on his arse. 

"I hardly think your instructor would approve of your form," he quipped playfully. 

"Mmm… probably not. Would have also insisted you lead, since you’re taller but," Greg murmured, as he pulled Mycroft closer to him so he could speak directly into his ear. "I'm the one doing the wooing."

Mycroft couldn't help the chuckle that. "You're trying to woo me?"

"Trying?" he asked in mock affront and squeezed the small, but firm swell of Mycroft's arse. “I’d say succeeding.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You ridiculous man.” He leaned in and kissed Greg softly and rested their foreheads together. For a moment, they just breathed in each other, relishing in the other’s nearness. 

“I could get used to this,” Greg murmured. 

He looked into dark eyes. “Would you like to?”

Greg nodded slightly. “Would you?”

“Yes,” he whispered and kissed his lover again, more firmly this time. Before things got too heated, however, he gently pushed the man back to look into his eyes once more. He cupped his face and exhaled slowly before he began. “Greg, with… with my position, I can’t be very public…”

“Yes, I know. It’s fine,” he reassured. “I can’t really be very public about my personal life either. I would like to tell a few people though.”

“Family, friends, that would be acceptable. Just — ”

“Not the general public. Yes, that’s fine. It’s all fine.” Greg moved them back to the couch and sat close to him.

He was grateful for the nearness and that Greg seemed to be understanding, but he had to say this. He had to get it out if they were going to do this.

He continued firmly, “And, I know I’ve been rather available lately, but it isn’t always this way. I will sometimes be gone or unavailable for days or weeks at a time and I won’t be able to contact you. I won’t be able to tell you about most of my work.”

He was cut off as Greg brushed a kiss against his temple. “Again, it’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m police, remember?” His warm hand felt reassuring in Mycroft’s. “I get called out at all hours and I often can’t or don’t want to discuss work with anyone I don’t directly work with. My work is on a much smaller scale than yours, but yeah, I get it.”

“I just need to be upfront with you. I need you to understand that — ”

“The job comes first,” he said calmly. 

This startled Mycroft slightly. Could Greg truly understand? “Yes… Is that… is that something you can live with? If not, I’d rather know now.”

Mycroft watched in apprehension as the man pulled away just enough to look him in the eyes.

“Mycroft, I want this. I want you, any way I can have you.”

“I may not have much time,” he said making sure to put emphasis on each word that followed, “but the time I do have, I want to spend with you.”

He saw Greg’s pupils dilate and was sure his had done the same. Just a few months ago, he had not spared a second thought for this man in front of him. Oh, how much could change in so little time. 

Looking back at this moment, Mycroft wouldn’t be able to say who moved first, but within a moment they were on each other. What started out as a gentle kiss, bordering on the passionate side, quickly turned into one of need and desire. Somehow, Mycroft ended up pressing Greg into the sofa and nipping at the sensitive place behind his earlobe. Greg’s breath hitched and he pressed his growing erection up to meet Mycroft’s. They groaned in pleasure.

“Mycroft,” Greg rasped, “take me to bed.”

He did not have to be asked twice. Though certain parts of his anatomy demanded attention at that very moment, his brain was easily able to overrule it. He was no longer twenty and a quick shag on the sofa meant at least a week with a tweaked back and a chiropractor’s appointment. Besides, the bed was larger. He led Greg up the stairs and into his bedroom. He pushed the man onto the bed, unbuttoned his sleeves, and pulled the shirt and vest over his head in one fluid motion, not bothering with the remaining buttons. Greg responded in kind, then reached out to remove Mycroft’s belt with deft fingers. In almost no time at all, he had Mycroft naked in front of him. The man growled and pulled Mycroft down on top of him. 

With a little laugh, Mycroft reached a hand between their bodies and made quick work of Greg’s blue jeans and pants. They groaned in pleasure as their erections found each other. Mycroft took them both in his large hand and began to stroke, ever so gently. Greg hissed and threw his head back which had the happy result of pushing his lower half even closer to Mycroft. They kissed lazily and took the time to explore the other’s body. Mycroft ran his free hand over the taut muscles of Greg’s well-furred abdomen. He felt the need arise in himself and figured that now was the time to play his trump card.

“Gregory,” he moaned, “I want you inside of me. Please.”

At the word “please”, Greg keened and paused for a moment, resting their foreheads together. It was as if he were trying to calm himself. Well, if saying “please” elicited this type of reaction, Mycroft would have to use the word more often. 

“You sure?” he breathed. “We could, if you’d rather — ”

“Gregory,” he interrupted. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Greg caught his mouth in a searing kiss and rutted against Mycroft for a moment before breaking away. “Do you have...?”

“Drawer.” He nodded over to the bedside table while relishing the solid weight above him.

That weight shifted as Greg reached over and grabbed a condom and a small bottle of lube.

“How do you want me?” Mycroft asked in a husky voice.

“Just like that,” Greg nipped at his neck enjoying the visible shiver Mycroft couldn’t hold back. “Want to see you.” 

Greg shoved a pillow under Mycroft’s hips so he would have better access. With a final kiss, he lowered himself to Mycroft’s cock and sucked him down. Mycroft was barely able to restrain himself from bucking into his lover’s mouth. He lost himself in the slowly building pleasure coursing through his veins as a slick finger began working him open. He gently carded his hands in Greg’s hair. He hadn’t forgotten their first time together, when Greg had all but asked for him to fuck his face. That had been pleasurable, but this was even more so. The man could do positively wicked things with his tongue and fingers.

Greg hummed around Mycroft’s cock as he added a second, and then eventually a third finger. Mycroft had to breathe deeply and mentally list all the prime ministers since 1975 to keep himself from coming right then and there. It was only moments later when he began begging.

“Gregory, please. Please. I’m ready. I… I need you.”

Greg chuckled and pulled off his cock with a wet pop. He slowly removed his fingers and rolled on a condom. Impatiently, Mycroft reached up and grabbed Greg by the hair and pulled him into a searing kiss. After a minute, Greg broke the kiss and lined himself up with Mycroft’s waiting entrance. 

Unable to wait a moment longer, Mycroft hooked his right leg over Greg’s hip and thrust up. He gasped at the pleasant intrusion and almost shook with the pleasure of Greg’s thick cock sinking into him inch by inch. Once fully seated, they began to move in tandem, as if in a choreographed dance. It was slow and deliberate and utterly earth-shattering. The heat and weight of his lover’s cock rocking inside of him was pure bliss. 

Greg was a considerate lover, but he was in no hurry. He seemed determined to slowly ramp up the pleasure before bringing his partner to his peak. Each stroke brushed Mycroft’s prostate and he allowed his hands to roam his lover’s body, but it wasn’t enough. More. Mycroft needed more. 

In an expert move, Mycroft licked a strip up Greg’s neck before firmly biting the sensitive flesh, but not hard enough to leave a mark. As his lover was distracted, Mycroft flipped them over and began impaling himself on the man’s cock. He gripped the headboard for support as he took his pleasure. 

“Mycroft,” Greg moaned beneath him. “Oh god! Come for me.”

Mycroft grabbed hold of his leaking cock with his free hand and stroked once, twice, before he was engulfed in a wave of pleasure, spilling his release in thick ropes across his lover’s chest. Greg held him through his orgasm then thrust up into the tight, wet heat above him and came with a shout. 

After the last aftershock subsided, Mycroft rolled off, just barely keeping himself from collapsing on top of the man. They lay close together but did not touch. He figured Greg for a cuddler, and while he didn’t mind the idea of it, it wasn’t something he was used to and wasn’t something he particularly wanted until he had the chance to cool down and clean his partner off.

He finally caught his breath and excused himself to the ensuite where he binned the used condom and wet a flannel with warm water. He brought it back into the bedroom and reverently cleaned off Greg’s chest. He placed a lingering kiss against the man’s lips, tossed the flannel in his hamper, and crawled back into bed, covering them both with the duvet. 

He burrowed close to Greg and grabbed his hand. “Stay,” he whispered.

Greg nodded, sleep already beginning to overtake him. “Of course. Always.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, relaxed and content. 

****

The next morning dawned early. In lieu of his usual run, Mycroft opted for a repeat of the previous night’s physical activity. After, they took a leisurely shower together and used up all of his hot water, which was a feat unto itself.

Mycroft didn't keep much in the house by way of breakfast, but they had toast and fruit and coffee. Mycroft was sure he had a jar of his mother's homemade marmalade somewhere in his larder, but Greg just shook his head and said that what they had out was fine.

As he was starting on his second cup of coffee, Mycroft's work mobile rang. He excused himself into the hallway to take it. It wasn't uncommon for him to receive work calls on a Saturday morning, but he had an odd feeling about this one.

"Holmes," he answered, hoping against hope that it was something he could take care of over the phone. As it was most days, however, his luck was not that good.

He walked back into the kitchen slowly, dreading what he was about to have to say. Greg looked up from the sports section of that morning's paper, and Mycroft had to catch his breath one more time. The man was beautiful. He really could get used to this. He found himself longing for the man to truly become part of his routine. 

Greg gave him a small smile and set down the paper, neatly folding it. "You need to go in."

"Yes," he said mournfully, drinking in the sight before him. "I have a flight in an hour. I'm not sure when I'll be back, or when I'll be able to — "

Greg held up a hand to cut him off. He stood up and walked over to Mycroft. The older man placed a chaste kiss on his lips. "As I said last night, it's fine. It's all fine. Is it to do with Reznik?"

He smiled apologetically. "Classified."

Greg nodded. "Just be safe."

"I always am."

He walked Greg to the door and pulled him into a searing kiss. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I know." Greg smiled up at him. 

Mycroft was pulled into another kiss that made his heart sore and his toes curl. He did not want to leave this man. Greg broke the kiss.

"Go, defend the realm. I'll be here when you return."

Mycroft chuckled at the ridiculous man who had, for some reason, chosen to… no, he wouldn't think about that just now. 

"I'll return as soon as I'm able. There's a car outside for you."

Greg flashed him a mischievous grin, pinched his arse, and walked out the door. Mycroft shook his head and smiled softly as the door closed. He shut his eyes and filed the memories of their night and morning together away in a safe corner of his mind that was slowly becoming Greg's. 

Once done, he straightened his shirt and allowed the mask to come back on. Duty called.


	9. Sideways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies, this chapter contains violence. Take care of yourselves.

31 May

23:47

It wasn’t like what you saw on telly or in films. Cases aren’t always able to be solved in a short amount of time. It’s rare that you can save the innocent just in the nick of time or catch the bad guy in the act. More often than not, you actually get them on something minor. Other times, it all goes to shit.

It had been weeks since there had been any movement on the Reznik case. About as long as Mycroft had been gone. Greg had received a text the night the man had left letting him know that he had made it safely to his location. After that, radio silence. Not even Sherlock had heard anything. Greg tried to live by the mantra of ‘no news is good news’. He threw himself into work and closed a surprisingly high number of cases.

He had been in line at Costa when the call came in. Robbie Cummings/Reznik and one of his lackeys had been pulled over for speeding. The idiot had a kilo of coke visible in the back seat. The patrol officer had tried to get Robbie and his companion to step out of the vehicle, but Robbie shot him at point-blank range and drove off. The officer was stable but in critical condition. The wounded officer’s partner called for backup, who pursued Robbie through the city ending with the man barricading himself in his neighbour’s flat holding them hostage.

Greg arrived on scene and took charge. Their go-to hostage negotiator was in hospital having his second bypass surgery and the other was on vacation. He reminded himself to have words with whoever oversaw their scheduling. Calling on all the skills he had from training, Greg began the process of talking the man down. It became clear, however, that this was not going to end well.

After an hour of back and forth, Robbie brought his elderly neighbour to the window and shot him in full view of the gathered officers.

They stormed the building.

The officer who disarmed Robbie failed to properly search him and was stabbed in the shoulder with a serrated kitchen knife.

Greg got to him next. In the struggle, they both went down. Greg came back up with a few minor cuts to his arms.

Robbie had fallen onto his own knife.

They rushed the man to the nearest A&E, but it was too late.

Greg stayed behind to check on the injured officers and have his own injuries checked out. Before he left, he pulled out his phone and texted Mycroft.

_Robert Reznik is dead._

_23:47_

He pocketed his phone and stepped out into the warm summer air, stepping around a group of men who had exited just before him. He rounded the corner and headed toward the main road, hoping he could catch a cab at the late hour. He felt something brush against his back.

The world went black.

****

1 June

09:28

The first thing Greg noticed as he came to was pain. He felt as though he had been run over by a lorry. He did a quick mental assessment of each body part and tried to make sure that everything was still there. Nothing felt broken, but his head felt worse than it did after a night of drinking with the lads.

He sat up slowly and gingerly opened his eyes. It took a moment for them to adjust to the dim light, but he could see that he was in a small warehouse. No… it was much too small to be a warehouse. The floor beneath him was a smooth concrete slab that was the only cool thing in the room. Three walls which did not reach the ceiling were metal, the fourth consisted of an overhead door. The ceiling, about ten feet up, appeared to also be metal, but there was a layer of chain link at about the eight-foot mark, creating a small crawl space, possibly separating off the upper space of each room. The whole room was about the size of his office.

_Storage unit_ , his sluggish mind supplied. He was in a storage unit.

The only light that filtered in was through the space around the door. It was getting hot. His phone was gone but his watch, which hadn’t been damaged in whatever scuffle brought him there, told him it was still morning. Summer had come early though. As the sun rose throughout the day, his makeshift cell would become an oven.

Greg wasn’t one to panic. He was great in a crisis. Always had been. Now was no exception. He needed to find a way out. He could panic later.

Though he knew it would be futile, he tried to open the door. Overhead doors were tough enough to roll up from the inside. The door wouldn’t budge. It was latched from the outside and most likely padlocked. He had nothing to use as a tool to try and damage the latch and even if he did, it was unlikely that he would be able to cause enough damage to unlock it. There were a few battered-looking milk crates in the far corner of the unit, but nothing else, and they would be no match for the door. 

His head was still spinning. Had he been drugged? It was possible. No, probable. He didn’t have a lump on his head, and unless one of his captors was a Vulcan, he could think of no other way he could have been completely incapacitated without a discernible injury. So, drugs then. No wonder he still felt off. The heat wasn’t helping matters. 

It was a tight space. He had nowhere to hide and only the milk crates and his two bare hands to defend himself. His training was good, and even in his weakened state, he was sure that he would be able to put up a fight. If he didn’t die of heat stroke first. Nothing else to do but rest until his head cleared enough to formulate a plan.

He sat by the door. If he were lucky, and only one or two guys came for him, he figured that he had a decent chance to fight them off. 

It could have been hours, or maybe just minutes, but finally Greg heard a vehicle approaching. His first instinct was to yell for help and start making as much noise as possible. However, he curbed the impulse when he heard four car doors open then shut and gruff voices head his way. He was definitely outnumbered. It was unlikely that he would be able to get past four men. Reznik liked to hire gym rats, bodybuilder types. If his lackeys weren’t on crack, they _were_ on steroids. 

Not wanting to be completely unarmed, he quickly grabbed one of the milk crates. Anything could be a weapon if you used it like one.

He could hear a padlock fall to the ground outside. With a metallic scraping sound, the latch slid to the side, and the door rolled open a few feet. There were indeed four men outside the unit and they completely blocked his exit. With the added light, he could make out that the unit’s door didn’t face outside. It opened into a hallway. _So this is a larger facility_ , he thought.

The largest man… _Matthews_ , his brain supplied. They had brought that guy in multiple times on assault charges. Matthews ducked under the door and stepped into the unit. The door rolled down behind him.

“Nice ta see ya up an’ at ‘em Detective Inspecta,” the man drawled. “We was sure you’d be wakin’ ‘round this time. Thought we’d pay ya a li’l visit.”

_Keep him talking_ , his brain supplied, _but stay on your guard_. “Matthews,” he inclined his head. “It’s been a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Matthews snorted. “Pleasure’s all ours. ‘owever we’d be a lot more pleased to see ya wif ya brains bashed in.”

“And why are they not?”

“That’s ‘cause the boss wants ya alive for ‘imself. Got plans for ya, ‘e does, since ya killed ‘is brother.”

“I didn’t kill Robbie. He wounded two of my men, killed a civilian, and attacked us with a kitchen knife. He fell on it during the struggle. We tried to save him…”

“Well, ‘s not how Reznik sees it. Robbie’s dead. You was involved. He’ll be wantin to have some… words wif ya after he deals with that posh bloke ‘ho’s been sniffin’ ‘round in ‘is business.”

_Mycroft_ , he thought, trying to squash down the panic that was slowly beginning to build. His face was a mask of passive defiance. He would give nothing away. “So, you intend to keep me here then?”

Matthews chuckled. “Yeah. We’re gonna keep ya ‘ere for a bit. An don’t think that anyone’s gonna save ya neither. This is our facility. Ain’t no one gonna ‘ear ya scream. Reznik wants ya alive an able ta talk, but he didn’t say anythin about the rest of ya.”

At that, the man launched himself at Greg. Before he even had a chance to move, a fist connected with his cheek. He stumbled back a few steps before he caught himself and swung the crate, still clutched in his hand, at the man’s head. Matthews ducked and used the opportunity to score another hit to Greg’s solar plexus. He gasped and dropped the box. Matthews tried to hit him again, but his training took over. He evaded the punch in the nick of time, aimed a kick at his opponent’s legs and knocked him off balance. He threw a succession of punches, then tackled the man, which brought them to the floor. They battled for dominance, each trying to incapacitate the other. However, Matthews was too strong for him. The man flipped him and slammed his head into the concrete floor. Greg’s vision went momentarily white.

He wanted to keep fighting, but his instincts told him to stay down.

Matthews stood, wiped away a trickle of blood that had sprung forth at his nose and spat next to Greg’s hunched form.

“Rest up, Detective Inspecta,” Matthews grunted. “Reznik’ll be ‘ere in a day or two and’ll want ya ready ta talk.” He walked back over to the door, rapped twice, and waited as it rolled up a bit to let him through. Before the door closed again, one of the men chucked a bottle of water into the unit.

Greg groaned in pain as he heard the grating sound of the latch slide into place and the lock secured. After a few moments, he heard the men get back into the vehicle and drive away. He lay there a moment more to catch his breath. His head ached and he was sure that he had suffered a concussion.

He sat up slowly and gagged. Had there been anything in his stomach, he would have surely vomited. Greg forced himself to stand and walk over to the bottle of water. Yes, he probably should have examined it for tampering, but at this moment, he didn’t care. It was unlikely to be poisoned as they wanted him alive for Reznik. He walked over to one of the milk crates and sat down on it before slowly sipping from the warm bottle. He only allowed himself a few swallows before he capped it. It was likely that this would be his only source of hydration for a while. He needed a way out of the unit.

He took as deep a breath as it was possible to take (he would have put money on having at least one broken rib) and reached into the front left pocket of his jeans. His hand clenched around a metal rectangular object. Greg removed the object and sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever being might be listening. In the struggle, he had lifted a multi-tool off Matthews. He opened the tool, which was no more than six centimetres in length, and examined the contents: pliers, needle-nose pliers, scissors, several screwdrivers, wire cutters, metal file, straight knife, and a bottle opener. He looked around the space at the milk crates and the old chain link that separated the unit from the ceiling. He chuckled. Those fucking idiots. They may have been Reznik’s muscle, but they were certainly lacking in intellect, leaving the crates in the unit and not searching him after the fight. They might own the facility, but they had taken a car to and from the unit which meant that they wouldn’t be close by. He had everything he needed to make his escape.


	10. Caring Is Not An Advantage...

1 June

19:32

Greg army crawled across the chain link that spanned the length of the building. As he had observed earlier, the walls that separated each storage unit did not reach the ceiling. The chain link was the only thing that kept the contents of one unit from spilling over to the next.

He had climbed up on two stacked milk crates in the back of the unit and been able to reach the chain link. Using the multi-tool, he had been able to work a section loose and climb up into the crawl space. It would have been so much simpler to have climbed up near the doors, however, the roll ups took up most of the space and it was near impossible to manoeuvre around. He highly doubted even Sherlock, the skinny git, would have been able to fit.

So now, he crawled along the rear of the tight space, ignoring the cuts and bruises he was receiving all over his body from the old chain link. He spared a moment to be glad that he had received a tetanus booster before leaving the hospital just hours ago. He didn’t even want to think about the bugs and vermin that very evidently called this place home.

After crawling across the top of four units, he found that luck was on his side. The unit below was vacant and its roll up door was open at least two feet. He moved to the very back of the unit, where the chain link was fastened to the wall and began working at it with his multi-tool. He prayed that it would not slip from his sweat-soaked hands.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, the metal gave and moved to the next fastener, which gave a lot more quickly. With some effort, Greg was able to shimmy his way into the unit. Unfortunately, the metal gave a bit more than he expected and he dropped to the ground like a stone. It wasn’t a long fall, by any means, but he rolled his ankle. He stifled a shout as he worked his way over to the door. Freedom was so close. He stopped only long enough to listen for the sounds of anyone who might have been alerted by all the commotion he had made. After a moment, he was satisfied that he was safe in that regard.

He ducked out of the unit and limped, as quickly as possible down the hallway to the exterior door.

It was just starting to get dark and he saw no vehicles around. A fence topped with razor wire surrounded the property on all sides. He used the multi-tool to cut away a small section of fence and squeezed through. To his left there were more industrial buildings, to his right was a dilapidated car park. He had no way to know which part of London, if this even was London, he was in. The air stank of refuse and hot asphalt.

He took a chance and went left. If the increasing sound of traffic were any indication, he was headed in the right direction. He had escaped. He was free. All he needed to do now was find a phone and get in touch with Sally or one of Mycroft’s people, and pray that he didn’t run into any of Reznik’s.

He knew he looked a sight: battered, bloodied, dirty, sweat-soaked, shredded clothing, and a limp. The pain in his side and his head were becoming overwhelming. He needed to find a phone. But this was an industrial area. Most businesses shut down for the day around six. Pushing the pain from his mind, he limped on, determined. He had survived worse, his people had survived worse, and he would survive this.

As he trudged down another street, he spotted an old, battered telephone box about ten yards ahead. It was unlikely that the thing worked, but it was a symbol of hope in his mind. He attempted to sprint over but quickly gave it up as a bad job after almost going down.

He got closer.

The phone rang.

Greg’s breath left him in a rush of pure relief. He dragged himself the remaining few feet and snatched up the phone.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?” a cool female voice asked across the line.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Yes, we can see that. There are two CCTV cameras on you right now.”

Mycroft’s people. Greg was too tired to look around for them. All the adrenaline from the escape was finally leaving his system. He was afraid he would collapse in a moment.

“A car is pulling up for you now, Detective Inspector.” As she spoke, a shiny black town car seemed to pop into existence and slid to a stop in front of him. “Get in the car, Detective Inspector.”

Without thinking twice, Greg hung up the phone and walked over to the car. The rear door opened, and he slid inside. Anthea was waiting for him with a bottled sports drink and a protein bar.

“Drink. Eat,” she instructed and practically shoved the items into Greg’s lap.

The car immediately sped off.

“Where is Mycroft? Is he alright?”

“He is fine, Detective Inspector.”

“How’d you find me?” he asked after downing the drink.

“CCTV,” she said, eyes back on her Blackberry.

“Are — ”

“No more questions,” she cut him off. “Rest. We are taking you to the hospital.”

“Yeah, but — ”

“Shh!” she interrupted again. “The meds we gave you should kick in any moment now?”

“What meds?”

For the second time in as many days, the world went black.

****

2 June

05:15

This time, when Greg came to, it was on a bed in a cool room with the sound of a monitor beeping quietly. He blinked awake into the dim light of morning that filtered in through a large window to his left. There was an IV in his right arm, along with one of those pulse ox devices on one of his fingers. He didn’t feel good, per se, but he felt a hell of a lot better than when he had last been conscious. Clearly, he had received fluids and pain medication. The clock on the opposite wall showed that he had been there for several hours.

A soft snore from his left alerted him to the presence of someone else in the room. He smiled softly at the slightly rumpled form of Mycroft Holmes asleep in what was clearly an uncomfortable hospital chair. The man had removed his blazer and a book lay open across his lap. He was safe and home.

Greg cleared his throat which caused Mycroft to stir.

“Aren’t you normally up and on your morning run ‘round this time? Slacking off are ya?” He grinned as Mycroft blearily blinked sleep from his eyes.

Upon registering that Greg was awake, the man nearly jumped out of his seat, rushed over, and grabbed his hand.

“You’re awake.”

“Yes.” He squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Brilliant deduction that.”

Mycroft coloured a little. “And you’re cracking jokes. You must be feeling better.”

“I am, now that you’re back safe. Reznik didn’t… Matthews said he — ”

“I am fine. Reznik and his organization are no longer of concern. As for the local branch’s hired muscle, they have been taken care of,” he said in an icy voice.

“Do I want to know?”

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. It was moments like these where Greg realized just why so many people were intimidated by the man. Despite that, however, he found it rather sexy.

“When did you get back?”

“Around midnight. I — ” he swallowed.

_ Probably trying to keep that damn mask on _ , Greg thought.

“While I may have wished to return sooner, my attention was required elsewhere.”

Mycroft had done a valiant job at attempting to hide his emotions, but Greg knew better.

“Come here,” he murmured, pulling on his lover’s hand. Finally, to his delight, Mycroft eschewed his layers of decorum and sat down on the hospital bed. Greg scooted over as much as he was able and pulled the man down to lay beside him. He ran his hand along those sharp cheekbones and gently through short auburn hair, smoothing it back into place.

Mycroft took in a sharp breath and leaned into the touch. In that moment, it was just the two of them.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for what happened. Nothing would have gone differently if you had been here.”

Mycroft tried to speak, but Greg cut him off.

“Bringing down Reznik was more important. And yes, I know where you were and what you were doing is ‘classified’, but the timing was rather coincidental. Besides, I’m really fantastic at my job.” He winked and placed a chaste kiss on the man’s forehead.

“Why are you comforting me? You’re the one who went through a whole,” he waved his hand in a general indication of Greg’s person, “ordeal.”

“Yeah, but I played a very active role in it all. There were things I could actually, physically, do that had a positive impact. You were away. You had other, more important things to deal with, so you just had to wait. Just waiting’s shit.”

“It is indeed.”

“Don’t go closing yourself off either. Not with me.”

He sighed. “Caring is not an advantage… at least, it doesn’t seem that way. But I do — care for you.”

Greg smiled and took his hand again. “And I for you.”


	11. Epilogue

21 September

18:30

Mycroft walked through the door to his flat carrying his briefcase and a bag of Chinese takeaway from the most authentic restaurant in the city. Being in his position had its perks.

He rolled his eyes and smiled a little as he took in the half-drunk cup of tea sitting beside the kitchen sink. The sound of running water clued him in to exactly where his lover was.

It had been a few months since he had cleared out a drawer and some closet space for the man. They were living together in everything but name. Sometimes they’d stay at Greg’s, or if Greg were working a late case, he’d sometimes stay at his place. However, since Mycroft had returned from his trip in early June, the two rarely spent a night apart.

He set down the case and bag of food on the table, loosened his tie, and made his way to the bathroom. It had been a long day. A hot shower with a very attractive Detective Inspector was in order.

He quickly stripped in the bedroom but made sure to put everything in its proper place. He may have made room in his life for someone else, but he would be damned if he changed anything about himself. They were in agreement about that. They were both almost fifty. They had found themselves long ago and were already fairly stuck in their ways. Neither man had the desire to change the other and as luck would have it, they were compatible as they were. Of course, there was the occasional disagreement, and small tweaks in behaviour had been made by both, but they were comfortable, content, and happy.

Mycroft could hear Greg mumble singing something in the shower. He grinned and knocked twice. “It’s me!”

“Hey! You’re home early.” Greg poked his head out from around the corner and smiled back. “Come on in, it’s still hot.”

“Of course, it’s still hot. It’s always hot,” he grumbled playfully as he slipped in behind his lover.

“Yes, I am,” the man joked.

Mycroft chuckled and wrapped his arms around the soapy man in front of him. He pressed a kiss to a solid shoulder and savoured the feeling of the body, this wonderful man’s body, whom he cared for.

“I couldn’t focus at the office, so I picked us up some Chinese from that place we like and brought a bit of work home.”

Greg turned around in the embrace and kissed him briefly. “You, Mr Compartmentalization couldn’t focus at the office? I’ve been to your office. There are quite literally no distractions there.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft murmured and captured the man’s mouth in a searing kiss. He allowed his hands to roam the expanse of his lover’s naked wet body. His right hand settled firmly on the globe of the older man’s arse. His left continued its seemingly random wanderings.

“Mmmm,” Greg moaned into his mouth before pulling away. “Yes. Yes to… wherever this is going. But not here, not again. Not without grab bars on every surface and emergency services on speed dial.”

Mycroft laughed at the memory of them about a month prior, attempting shower sex and ending up in a heap of limbs on the bathroom floor. That night had ended with multiple ice packs and no sex. “No, definitely not. Let’s rinse you off and then go to bed.”

He kissed Greg again and grabbed the handheld showerhead. He slowly ran the stream of hot water along his lover’s back, tilted his head back to wash the lathered soap from the man’s hair, then down his front, ensuring that no soap remained. Mycroft followed the water with gentle caressing touches, allowing his touch to linger in sensitive areas, teasing the flushed clean skin.

Mycroft led them out of the shower, blindly grabbed Greg’s towel and began drying them both off. Not wanting to waste another moment, he pulled the man into the bedroom and onto the bed.  _ Their _ bed. There were so many things he wanted to do to this man in their bed. But for now, all he wanted was to satisfy his craving for contact.

He crawled up Greg’s body, placing soft kisses along his abdomen and up to his jaw. “I have been thinking about this all day.”

“Have you now?” Greg chuckled darkly.

Mycroft hummed his assent. “Yes. I have been thinking about the texture of your skin, the heat of your cock, the sound of you breathing when we fuck. It has been, most distracting.”

“So, you just want a shag to get me out of your system,” he joked, but caught his breath in a gasp as Mycroft lightly bit his earlobe and dragged his nails down his side.

“Oh, my dear Gregory, if I just wanted a quick shag, you would know.”

He sat up, denying Greg the physical contact he so desperately craved. Mycroft observed his lover. He was spread out on the bed, cock already fully erect and leaking. There was a slight curve to him that made penetration particularly pleasurable, but that would have to wait. Tonight, he wanted to give pleasure. Yes, he would take his own, but not until the man beneath him was completely and totally wrecked and then begged for more.

Mycroft ghosted his hands along the man’s abdomen, only pausing to place a reverent kiss on a scar, below the fifth rib, where he knew Greg had been stabbed years before. He moved up to the shoulders and then the arms. He stopped again to pay homage to a smattering of other scar tissue acquired over the years.

When he reached Greg’s right hand, he kissed the palm. Greg reached up to cup his face, but he turned his head at the last moment and caught the man’s forefinger in his mouth, sucking it down in imitation of what he planned on doing to his cock later in the evening, before moving on to the next.

Greg groaned, then let out a soft chuckle. “Mycroft, I don’t think fingers are an erogenous zone.”

Mycroft popped off and smiled impishly. “You surprise me, Gregory. Here you had me thinking you had some rather… odd kinks what with the wine play that first night.”

Without warning, Greg expertly flipped them and firmly pressed his groin to Mycroft’s equally aching cock.

“Are you trying to tease me, Holmes? I thought you knew by now that, in the bedroom at least, I am not a patient man.”

Mycroft attempted to suppress a moan at the blissful contact. “On the contrary, Detective Inspector, I am trying to worship you.”

He surged up, threaded his hands through the short silver hair of his lover, and brought their mouths together. He placed all his adoration for the man and his body into the slide of lips and tongues. There were things that Mycroft simply did not believe he would ever be able to put into words, even though he felt them. Verbal declarations were not how he showed affection. Words, after all, meant nothing if not backed up by actions.

They moved together slowly, breathing in one another, their bodies slotted together like two pieces of a puzzle. Mycroft couldn’t keep his hands in one place. Although he knew every inch of Greg’s body, he longed to touch, to feel, to claim.

The once gentle kisses had slowly become more passionate. It was as if he could communicate every desire, every fantasy, every feeling he was capable of just by the movement of his lips on Greg’s. By the slide of their cocks.

Before the friction could shift away from pleasurable, he reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the bottle of lube. He poured a generous amount into the palm of his hand and grasped both of their erections. Greg moaned in pleasure at the new sensation. He wrapped a leg around Mycroft, seeking more contact, and Mycroft gave it to him. He reached down and cupped his lover’s balls, rolling them gently, before he slid his index and middle fingers back a little farther to massage his perineum. Greg’s body tensed momentarily beneath him, before relaxing, almost boneless. Mycroft continued to stroke their cocks together while he applied delicate pressure. He longed to make it last, but the sounds his lover made under his ministrations, the knowledge of the power his hands held, was almost too much for him. He licked a stripe up his lover’s neck and bit lightly at the sensitive flesh of the man’s ear. He sucked the lobe into his mouth and moaned.

With that, Greg’s back arched and he clung to Mycroft, as a drowning man clings to a life raft. He moaned low and deep as his body began to spill his pleasure. The feeling of the hot fluid was all Mycroft needed to spill his own release. He stroked them through the aftershocks before finally rolling to the side so he would not crush his lover.

They were silent for a few moments as they caught their breath. The silence was broken by Greg’s chuckle.

“Hmm?” Mycroft asked. He turned his head to look at his lover and smiled.

“Looks like we could both use another shower.”

“So, it does,” he said, amusement colouring his voice. “Best hurry though, dinner will be getting cold. And that Crab Rangoon doesn’t reheat well.”

Greg sat bolt upright. “Crab Rangoon? You got Crab Rangoon?”

Mycroft smiled, and nodded.

“But you hate Crab Rangoon.”

“Yes, but I  _ care _ for you.”

Greg hopped up out of bed and sprinted back towards the bathroom. “Come on, hurry up, or I’m going to eat all the Peking Duck.”

Mycroft laughed and hauled himself up out of bed. This ridiculous man that was his, all his, had threatened his Peking Duck. That just would not do.


End file.
